A hairbrush, a spatula, and her fat, heavy hands.
Every blow was like being struck down by God.
Every blow held the taste of terror to me, a boy.
When the whipping was through, Mother held me,
Whispering, “I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t want to.”
Do you see how she loved me with scars? Fearing her
Taught me compassion. I did not whip my own children.
12 Feb 2019