One Got Away Anyway by Martha Ellen Johnson

Martha Ellen Johnson

Martha Ellen lives alone in an old Victorian house on a hill on the Oregon coast. She is a retired social worker and holds an MFA. She has had poems and prose published in various journals and online forums, including RAIN and North Coast Squid. She writes to process the events of her life.

One Got Away Anyway

I.

at your seventeen dawn “yes”

[he hates phonies most of all]

you do too Dearly Beloved

Peaceandloveandallthat

punkin-lunkin pancakes

slathered in butter dripping

with sweet syrup 1966

“he’s such a gentle soul”

at the dusk in a sidelong glance

s o m e t h i n g protrudes

through a weak seam or

causes an unnatural bump

to swell beneath the shirt

non-human eyes flit side to

side w e i r d tongue darts

from a drooling maw

gait like an ape

Inexplicable

Horrifying a guttural growl

[you’re mistaken you doubt]

II.

Bridal illusion is a soft

mesh net fabric

often used for veils

or layered over opaque

cloth to create an

ethereal effect. Illusions

are peaceful places.

You preferred living there.

Plastic flatware was sterling.

Dickens Christmas, gilded.

Paper plates, Limoges.

His plans to smother

you one Autumn day

in the deserted

Forest Preserve in northern

Illinois on the uphill

footpath by pressing

his palm over your mouth

and nose then sliding

your infant under the

surface of the nearby river

until she drifted away,

were thwarted only

by his overwhelming fear.

This time might lead to capture.

You were communing with nature.

Hippie-style. Didn’t see the hesitation,

his slack face, his disappointment,

defeat and resignation. You didn’t

see anything, did you?

[And you forget.]

III.

You rested your mind in the tangible.

The satin quilt. Butter pecan ice cream.

Sunny afternoons. Fragrant roses.

Sapphire skies and puffy clouds.

Until, at last, real became unreal.

Big birds throwing shadows

across your eyes. Drifting

“helpless, helpless, helpless”

with Neil Young in North Ontario.

Where “My darling, I don’t give a damn”

and “Tomorrow is another day” reside.

Dissociated. In dreams dwelt the dark woods

and Alma at sixteen in the abandoned

factory in Tijuana. His hand over her mouth.

“The sag of her face as the life drained out.”

His gleeful words. Horrors to be forgotten.

[No one would believe you anyway.]

IV.

Nagging thoughts. The shadow people

dashing across the doorway while your

dad sat sideways on the gurney smiling

to quell smaller fears. Like you, unaware

of the greater danger always hovering.

You see them. “Get lost!”

And the stain on your favorite

shirt remains even with a Fels Naphtha

scrubbing. There’s no escape.

You break it down. Rearrange shards.

Force tabs into the wrong blanks.

At last one dense package. Lean. Spare.

Easy to hide in a small backpack.

Nonfiction became fiction. Perfect.

“¡Ayudame! Ayudame." Shouts became

muffled whispers. Others saw the charade.

They believed you’d drifted into madness.

You let them. You loved them.

[And they were right.]

V.

Old and alone. Safe now that he’s dead.

You collect every incident of abuse

and dangers you’ve survived.

The degrading, belittling, mocking.

“You’re nothing. No one loves you.”

The locking out. Discarded like trash.

Held at gun point. Slapped. Shoved.

Bruised. The failed murder plot.

A threat of rape. Your brilliant fast talk

to get away. And the times you didn’t.

Pushing your walker along you revel in

diamond memories. The genius of one

little girl. Bargaining. Lying. Coaxing.

Crocodile tears. Begging. Fooling.

Putting at ease. Sly. Running so quick

no one could catch you. Not dead

but sometimes playing dead.

You toss these broken bits into the air

and let them land like scraps on your

sewing room floor or like pieces of junk

discarded along a back road.

You gather them up as they lay, bind them

together into a prize-winning quilt to wrap

around for warmth and comfort.

Or you cast them into a marvelous iron gate

with intertwining vines and leaves.

Small bells ringing at every swing.

You pass through into green pastures.

You lie down beside the still waters.

[You and Alma share the sweetest figs.]