Three Poems by Tara Temprano

Tara Temprano

Tara Temprano is a 47-year-old woman living in New Jersey as an educator of young children. Her experience with sexual assault spans a few circumstances and poetry has served her well as an outlet to address the assaults, harassment, and abuse that endured in her twenties and thirties. The five poems selected have not been published in any way. Her substack, named “Poetry and Artifacts,” publishes poems weekly as well as “Artifact Journaling,” which combines the notion of junk journaling with evocative journaling by glueing or taping down artifacts from places one has traveled, and using them as a springboard by answering three key questions: Where were you and what were you doing in that moment? What was your favorite part? Why is this a moment you will always remember?

As a survivor of sexual assaults, harassment and abuse, Tara understands the complexity with which it takes to survive and eventually thrive. Each day remains a struggle and poetry and several therapists save her life. She hopes these poems will resonate with other survivors.

My Achilles Heel

Last night,

he sat in his beat-up car—

Lurking

in the shadows

of my past.

Waiting for an old friend

to whom I’d give

my pleasant regards.

The bass

pumped heavy metal thumps,

guitar riffs

that made me smirk—

at first.

But in a split second,

I knew.

And shook

to my core.

I remember—

the hunter-green couch,

Stained

with my innocence.

I remember—

the paralysis

of limbs and voice,

a drug-addled haze—

poisonous venom

that shielded

my will.

Petrified in fear,

cloaked in agony,

steeped in despair—

I could not move.

You came later.

Tried to offer comfort,

built mea fragile shield.

Tucked me

into layers of protection.

And thus began

the arduous journey

of pretending

to be okay.

Drunk Old Man

Little girl

with the pink ribbons in your hair,

skipping along on your way home.

Beware of the beast and his scary grow

land ferocious bite.

Out he comess

creaming and swinging his hairy arm

sat your springy curls.

Run little girl

before he gets you

all tangled up in his sweaty, drunken body.

Tell him you’re tired or too young,

but whatever you do

Don’t let him get your soul.

He can take your body,

but never

Never

Let him take your soul.

Sweet little girl

with the pink ribbons in your hair,

as he swallows you.

Dream pink fantasies

of how life will never be.

Vision sweet memories,

and the light will fade all that you are.