THE PURDAH

By Catt Kingsgrave-Ernstein 2000

No.
I will not wear this veil, this caul,
This shroud to hide the marks of pain you left
upon my heart.
Yours is the hand that made my face look so
And lo;
Yours is the fear that bade me cower low
And lo;
Yours is the hate made me afraid to grow
It was your mouth, with razored fang and breath of bitter vitriol
that stung
And burned these eyes of mine from simple
blue to salty
green.
I still weep bloody tears.
No.
I see where you have painted this dank cloth with
shame and loathing
It is heavy, dark with mold
from graves of countless others
who have strangled in its folds.
How dare you hold it out to me with poisoned smile, as
if to say
"We speak not of such things to strangers, Dear."
Your voice is fear, and in your eyes I mark the shape
of buried fact.
And I will answer
No.
You speak not of such things to strangers,
Nor to yourselves, your children-toysvictims,
nor even unto God.
And yet,
No Angel stays your hand, your tongue,
Your creeping, seeping lust and shame from
reaching out
With sick caress, contagion in your touch you kiss and
whisper
"No one needs to know about you."
But in your eyes the shout is loud —
"Except for you and I, that is. We two
will always know...
Dear."
My flesh still crawls in memory, but I have blood
enough to answer
No.
For I have grown to like the feel of truth upon my
cheeks,
However stinging wet the fall.
And I have grown to trust the gleam of love in other
eyes that mark my triumphs and my tragedies,
My strengths and my sublimities.
They ask me only one great favour — that I Speak;
Eye to Eye, Mind to Mind
(And lo; the brilliant treasure, which you covet,
and destroy within the shadow-catacombs you call
a heart)
Soul to Soul.
I will not sell mine into silent slavery to siut your
social sham
I will not play your game
I will not bear your shame

Wear it yourselves.

---

This was written in response to the discovery that an Uncle of mine had not only molested me, but that he had been molesting all his siblings for the last 30 years. Each of us thought we were the only ones he'd sullied, until the youngest aunt had a nervous breakdown and started calling everyone in the family. The patriarch then told her that if she persisted in trying to 'tear this family apart for your petty revenge, you will not have parents anymore, your children will not have grandparents, and no one in this family will claim you ever again'. She backed down. I did not. This poem is the result.

Catt Kingsgrave Ernsteinis a horror writer who lives in Texas. She is married, with four cats and a surly hedgehog, and takes all her extra time indulging in one art form or another. Her likes are goth music, Peter O Toole, action movies, gardening, and interpretive dance. Her dislikes are Republicans, little noisy dogs, and fanatics of all stripes and colours. She plans to take Anne Rice's job before all is said and done, and retire to a home in the San Francisco or Monterey area, where she will raise ponies and give children rides.

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