Isn't it Funny

Location

“Isn’t it kind of funny,” her friend starts her rant sarcastically,
“funny how the world works…”
“Yeah, kind of funny,” she repeats as she runs the pad of her thumb
over the patch of skin just beneath the bend of her elbow that,
like the rest of her pale flesh,
has seen its fair share of purple, green, and yellow tinted days.
Her friend drones on about the injustice the world has dealt her,
and about how sometimes, life just isn’t fair
but she tunes it all out and instead sits in the padded booth
that sticks to the backs of her sweaty thighs and mulls over that word- funny.
Isn’t it funny- the phrase ironically reminds her of that night a few years back
when he was angry- nobody ever remembers what over because of the triviality—
and overturned the shelves in her room.
Delicately shaped swans and shepherds and sweet children petting lambs
painted in pastels and passed from generation to generation—
those were the broken porcelain heirlooms that sliced into her knees
as she tried to gather the pieces, tried to ignore her mother retaliating towards him
and then dangling, pushed over the precipice of 13 stairs
with only the thinnest layer of carpet to cushion her fall—
held back by the same pair of cracked, greasy hands that held her there.
She doesn’t keep porcelain or glass on display anymore.
Isn’t it funny- it reminds her of a couple years past,
sitting with her mother on the speckled brown carpet by the washer and dryer
while her mother broke the news that there wouldn’t be another baby after all.
She sat there questioning- “what do you mean, no baby?”
They both held each other as they cried, and a few days later,
after her mother’s dreaded doctor’s office visit,
the nightmares of sterile coats vacuuming bloodied babies with Kirbys or Bissels
from women with their legs splayed open started and lasted—
weeks on end, month after month the ugly memories played under closed lids.
Not once after was the missing child ever spoken of again.
Isn’t it funny- the phrase reminds her of all the school nights she only got two hours of sleep
because the combination of fear and screaming isn’t conducive to rest.
Reminds her of the five teachers who called her aside in eight grade
because her percentages were dropping and they were worried.
Reminds her of how mad she was, because in her eyes,
she wasn’t losing sight of her potential, only trying to keep it all together.
Reminds her that she still can’t give a straight answer to the question “what are you doing?”
because no matter the words coming from her moth, they would always be wrong,
and she’d need to work harder, do more, get up and do something—
preferably whatever work he needed done for his profit.
Reminds her that no holiday is fun- merely an excuse for a fight.
Reminds her of how she goes out searching for love in places
she knows carry no love over to the morning because just for an hour,
she wants to give a piece of herself and earn a little approval,
and she wants to know that she can do something right.
isn’t it funny- it reminds her of one of her worst days, of the actions and words that had been
systematically ingrained into her- words and actions she wishes she hadn’t said and done.
It reminds her of that afternoon, cradling her brother in her arms, her baby as much as theirs,
while he cried because his head and neck hurt- his daddy had hit him for the first time at age five.
Reminds her of letters strung together in ways she wishes she could unscramble, take back—
she smoothed his hair as he cried into her ratty t-shirt and told him, “shhh, shh now.
Lets not be too loud-” and later, “- don’t tell anyone, okay?”
And when he asked why, she said, “Because daddies aren’t supposed to hit their little guys.”
Isn’t it funny- the phrase reminds her of that last time, when it was something as petty
as the way she was mowing the lawn,
reminds her of the bald spot she has to pray the hairdressers have a little professionalism about,
because the hair that once occupied her scalp has a new home in his fist.
Reminds her of how he came at her with a wooden beam—
the barn was falling down anyway, and it was handy, it seems—
reminds her of shouting at his mother,
“See who your child has become. Just look at who your son is,”
and packing her bags gladly when he told her to leave.
Her mother saw her throw the bags stuffed with clothes into the back seat of her car,
and pleaded with him to make it better, to not let her leave—
Reminds her of his way of keeping her there—
the hands around her throat and the broken keyboard on her back—
she likes to think that had it been turned on, it would have been playing the sad, chaotic song of her life.
Reminds her of how proud of herself she is,
because she has spoken only three words to him in three months since that day.
“Isn’t it kind of funny,” her friend says and continues on,
venturing to a completely different subject now.
“Yeah, kind of funny,” she repeats as she runs the pad of her thumb
over the patch of skin just beneath the bend of her elbow that,
like the rest of her pale flesh,
has seen its fair share of purple, green, and yellow tinted days.

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741