Late Words for My Sister, - A poem by robin becker, 2010 - 11 penn state laureate

Writing about violence in families requires the courage to move beyond silencing taboos. Shame and fear of retribution create powerful deterrents to speech. In this poem, the speaker addresses her deceased sister, telling her about the "old man" she would not recognize now that time and age have diminished him. I chose the "stepped" three-line stanza with many enjambed lines to suggest movement and instability. Something to consider: What experiences have you shared with siblings that remain difficult to discuss or explore? Late Words for My Sister You did not want to remember with me how he raged up the stairs unbuckling the black leather strap we called the belt. How our four thin legs danced up and down on the bed like the jointed limbs of marionettes while the burning lariat of his anger seared our legs; how his face blazed and his eyes glowed as he took the whip back in a tight circle to strike again. And again. We begged him to stop. Remember? And when he relented, panting like an animal that has run a great distance, he paused, and we could see the sweat on his lip and under his arms. He hung there, his bulk suspended from his shoulders by a power greater than he, and as we crept past him he slapped me, hard across the face, sparing you that humiliation because you were weak and the youngest and had only followed my example into evildoing. I tried to make myself small, to pass him, or no, I'm remembering wrong. Maybe I sneered. Maybe I had not yet learned to cower before the bully, to bare my neck, to admit when I had lost. How surprised you would be to see him now, an old man checking the price of milk at the supermarket against the price in his head. The difference is a conundrum, a fracture in continuity, the way his daughters broke from his plan.