Mary Kathryn Murphy 2 of 4

(a surmise from now about then):

For me, from my childhood,

there were so many days

of verbal clashes,

so many slaps and strappings,

so little self-identification

straightforwardly,

chores as dialogue,

starved for recognition

outside of her fearful projections.

I was not very good

at being third child,

not good at being youngest,

not the daughter

desired after two boys,

or the concession to priesthood.

I was not ever anything

but the unrealized potential

heard in response.

There were so many overbearing

mixed messages,

so many words

so little pride or praise.

I was at a loss

to identify praise-worthiness.

She was dysfunctional

but denial reigned as presence.

I was rendered but not realized.

Raised by scarcity of shared feelings.

I was a toucher

raised by two non-touchers,

a talker

raised by a talker and a non-talker,

a moving imager

raised by a fixed imager

and a non-imager,

do the twisted math.

I was hard-pressed

to please her,

sabotaged behind my back

and denied an awareness

of dealings undisclosed.

She never really asked me

but generally accused.

There was no approach

but only account,

yet she was too insular

to be truly adversarial.

She never had a handle on it

or a hand to share.

I assumed for myself

the position of being scary

and appropriately aloof.

Unsaidness meant a lot to me.

There was a vast exodus

without the possibility of return,

finalized by an initial remark

said to my wife to be

upon first meeting her

in my presence

“oh you poor dear”.