Portraits

Bodies dressed in formal clothes
suits and gowns never worn
except for this family photo.

Hair perfectly groomed,
faces fixed in forced smiles,
whatever was flawed in the portrait
the photographer could air brush away.

But he couldn’t erase the scars from beatings
or the effects alcoholism had
upon my step father’s booze soaked life.

Nor could his talents
undo the compulsive/obsession nature of my mother
and her fanatical religiosity
with guilt given as a diet,
all the abuse done in the name of God,
leaving deep wounds upon my heart
from making sure I knew
that I wasn’t deserving of love or attention
because it had to be shared in church
where others could give her praise.

In that photo it all was hidden,
looked great in that frame,
while in the world lived behind close doors,
it was hideous and sadistic when the demons prowled,
time took its toll and left shatter souls,
my mother dying of cancer a few years later
while my step father gave up his booze,
yet paid the price with failing health.

We never spoke much after I left home,
just had those occasionally reunions,
carrying that insanity in my veins,
doing my best to not let that toxin
totally ruin my own life,
still never really escaped the efforts
haunted by the hate and cruelty experienced
always keeping my on the edge of reality.