Seductive Poison by Deborah Layton Read Free Book Online Page B

unsympathetic clouds gather in the sky
A heavy wind begins to blow. Away from the
land where he is able to survive the scarlet bird,
alone now, falls to his death under the bleeding tree.
    As I tried to connect with Mama, I developed a strong compassion for people unable to fend for themselves. I wanted to become one with the real people, the honest people, people who showed their anger, like the Hell’s Angels, the poor, the working class, people from whom Papa tried to keep me safe. I wanted to commune with those who had experienced grief and misfortune. At fifteen, I felt akin to the underclass and was comfortable only with my nineteen-year-old Filipino boyfriend who was a high school dropout, poor, and lived in a nearby working-class community. He thought I was pretty, he thought I was funny, he thought I had something to offer, and thus he replaced the father I could no longer please or amuse. I liked when he was firm with me, when he told me I was drinking too much, or when he grabbed my arm a little too tightly in order to make me listen. I thought his toughness demonstrated his love for me.
    But I was vigilant and careful about remaining chaste; I knew that only really bad girls had sex before marriage and that deep inside I was good—my parents and other outsiders simply did not see through my facade.
    At school I often felt out of control. I went to battle for students I felt had been unfairly treated. On one occasion, I threw a desk at a teacher who accused my best friend of not having written her own term paper. I passionately wanted and needed to correct all the wrongs that had been perpetrated in my world. I was fighting the demons who ate at me and who were trying to hurt my mother. But I became incensed toward Mama because she remained distant and would not let me fight for her. Again and again, I felt betrayed by her. Why, I wondered, when she knew, deep inside, that we were made of the same material, had the same spirit—why did she silence her self, her essence, and always side with Papa?
    My intuition was calling to her, begging her to “Come away, child, and play.” I was willing her to join me, like the gnomies in the poem in my Childcraft book. I was outside in the dark, like they were. I was lonely and knew she wanted to join me, but I could not understand the greater forces that held her back. Sadly, I misinterpreted her fear of stepping out from her cocoon. I saw her reluctanceas a sign she didn’t care for me, the aching fifteen-year-old, haunted by the truth untold.
    Yet I never gave up and continued to speak to her through my innocent letters.
1968
Dear Mom and Dad,
I once stated in a poem I wrote, “Love is the key to serenity.” I have changed my viewpoint completely. Although love has a great role to play in the human race I feel love is not the true key to serenity. I feel it is the knowledge of one’s self. To know yourself as you know a song. With true understanding, meaning, fearlessness and the ability to compensate for those losses which meant a great deal to one’s self…. I’m not sure if that meant anything to you or even if you understood what I just wrote, but I think if you think about it, it will bring a new light to your eyes.
    Was I rebelling for the mother who was entangled in her own web and growing visibly exhausted from the years of deceit and sorrow?
    Now, when I intruded on Mama alone, I interrogated her. What was she doing? I ridiculed her for asking my piano teacher to dinner. I found him ugly and stupid, and I hated him, but she brightened perceptibly when they talked about music. I resented her making treats, even sandwiches, for the graduate students who spent so many hours doing research in the library where she worked because it seemed that she was searching for camaraderie through students hardly older than I. She made friends with them and knew each one by name. I sensed that they were taking Tommy’s place. I felt jealous. Why couldn’t I be the