Featured Poet - Robbi Nester
SCREEN DOOR
To Leslie
Chipped green door, old grass losing its spring under the foot.
Heavy, too heavy for the frame. Banging each time it closed.
We were two little girls, Playdough underneath our fingernails.
The screen door was awkward for a child, not flimsy like the others
on the block—stodgy, dodgy, opening with a shriek. It matched
the green door in its forbidding stiffness. Hard wind lashed, smashing
the screen door, slap, out of your palms, sent it spinning across the lawn,
shards of glass and twisted metal. Cyclone, my father touching down,
sweeping everything away. He grabbed your arm, another person’s
child, no barriers, and whipped you while I watched and wept,
at once grieving and relieved that someone else
could share the burden of his rage.
RITUAL
I’ve always gravitated
toward the dark, seeking
immunity, a tiny dose
of fear to ease my terror.
As a child, I couldn’t
sleep, hearing footsteps
on the stairs and in
the hall, imagining
I saw the eyes
of prying neighbours
in the window opposite
my room. I’d take strange
comfort, huddling in the closet
like a cat, among the shoes
and shadows, so I would be
the presence in the dark.
Squatting, I would sleep,
free for once, knowing
who was waiting
for my eyes to close.
PAST THE BREAKERS
When I was five, my father
took me to the spot where
waves begin, a hollowing
of sand beneath my feet.
I thought that he would
hold me
rest me on the waves’ soft
shoulders, but instead,
he tossed me into glass-green swells.
I sank, cold water covering my mouth
and nose, an airless prison.
Eventually, he yanked me upward by an arm.
Through tears, I saw
my mother waving
from a bright, striped towel.
Why did my father
exercise such cruelty
over my body. Perhaps
to show control. Perhaps
to prove he held
my life in his hard hands.
'Ritual' and 'Past the Breakers' were previously published in my collection, 'Narrow Bridge' (Main Street Rag, 2019). 'Screen Door' is part of my new manuscript, Everything Will Be Transformed.
ABOUT THE POEMS:
All three of the poems reference my traumatic early life as the child of parents with mental illness. My father inherited Tourettes, OCD, and Bipolar Disorder. Because of shame, this history was withheld from me, but I could witness it in my father, who was never treated or medicated for any of his disorders until old age, when I took charge of his care. My mother was a hoarder and suffered from severe anxiety. It is perhaps not surprising, since living with my father, who was volatile and violent, exacerbated these disorders. She did not protect me from my father or others who bullied me in my childhood. My parents had many fine qualities as people, but it was difficult to grow up in this environment, especially since relatives who could have shielded me shrank away, hoping to avoid the shame of having mentally ill family members. Writing and reading were a sanctuary for me during that time, and still help me to process difficult and intense experiences and emotions."
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