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For the daughter in me
accepting her father’s violence.
For the father in me
accepting his daughter’s silence.
For the mother in me
accepting her father’s violence.
For the daughter in me
accepting her mother’s silence.
From Rodent Angel (New York University Press, 1996) by Debra Weinstein. Copyright © 1996 by Debra Weinstein. Used with the permission of the author.
That evening we took a bath
and held each other in bed
a little longer. When the last,
slant of your face was gone, I was a train
traveling north China alone.
I want civil endings: let no lover ever leave me
at Wuhan Station in Hubei Province on a night
full of red neon and chaos, with bells and
chickens and no English, wishing me
love and good luck.
She was for masturbation,
for getting to know yourself,
sexually. She caressed
her leg as she spoke. She sensed
unresolved conflict, Oedipal
strivings. Her own daughter,
she said, would walk
naked in her bra, try to take
her place on bed. This was nothing
to cry about. Every girl
wanted what mother had, wanted
her mother. She had my parents
in analysis and group. I would hear
her muffled name
through their door, as I lay
in bed, making
1.
There is the alphabet of hope
and the alphabet of despair.
The alphabet of despair
with its three-letter diseases.
The alphabet of hope
with its three-letter cures.