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My father's hands when he struck me
were toasted the rich color of the mud
where I hid in the ditch past the creek
past our yard past the slamming screen door

where I steadied my shaking, pale fingers in cool,
slippery Earth. Let her coat me completely
with her wetness, singing love is the Goddess
who holds you after the rain has gone,

thinking love is the smashing of Thor's hammer,
a cosmic reminder to men they need not
throw women across the knee of sexuality
and strike us senseless because we

are like the earth; more than the holes
dug in us, more than what moves inside
our bodies or what grows on it or any shape
we are pressured into. Have you ever seen

a sculpture 100 years down the road?
That was me, later, when the mud had dried
feet planted, arms raised in the sun, head bowed
supplication to the protective Mother divine.

That was me after my father tried to break me
of becoming a woman who might be hurt
by men because there was no greater terror
to him than the violence of which men are capable.

There is no logic to be found here excepting
a cultural legacy stating women cause and are for
hurting, a country built on what was she wearing
and what did you say to provoke him.

I scratched up bits of the Mother in my hair
for weeks after that beating, drawing each crumb
from my scalp to my lips, calmly swallowing dirt
like my father did the American dream.

This poem was written based on the following prompt:

"With hazy memories of my old cottage of clay
I thank thee for the lessons of this day."

from last week's winning poem, Hello Poverty! Remember Me?, by @tej37.

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