He Killed Me First

He glided into a memory whose ghost I shall always reflect upon. Em Yếu Anh.

 

 

Like me, most women hold their hearts in hand.

We push aside darkness to find the light,

remembering days when our cloudless eyes

rushed across the sky and its azure height.

 

With handfuls of dreams and surrendered stars,

we love with excess and infinite grace.

Then, wounded and scarred by iniquity,

we hide in the mask that covers our face.

 

I met him when I was just twenty-three,

unraveled in cycles of depression,

while dealing with my father’s suicide

and the quicksilver weight of oppression.

 

My heart was galvanized by shards of ice.

The sunlight dissolved and fell from the sky.

I packed the best of me and left the rest,

indiscernible and destined to die.

 

When he burned into my life like a star,

he became a bridge of impulsive wings.

I crossed his heart, as he flew into mine,

as a shadow that spills its offerings.

 

When I ran to him, I was running from me,

from the garden that was filled with my needs

and the monuments of pain and regret

that life had erected among the weeds.

 

I burrowed my heart in his soaring embrace

and penciled the past in lines of his smile

and buried the ghost of the girl in me

that had been aching for such a long while.

 

He let me believe in whirlwinds of lies,

in the dervish that danced on his lips,

in orchards of perfume and dainty silks,

and webs that he spun from his fingertips.

 

But nothing remains hidden forever.

The abstract becomes concrete in the end,

and silks burn in the fire of Dante’s pyre

and whirlwinds fade with the leave of the wind.

 

I don’t remember how it all started.

It crept through the window by slow degrees:

a furtive glance here and a harsh word there

or a judgement that was meant as a tease.

 

It culminated on the brink of madness.

At four in the morning, he crossed the line.

I could smell the alcohol on his breath,

and it turned my stomach into rapine.

 

He had his hands all over my body.

I kept pleading for him to let me sleep;

but he crawled like spiders all over me,

making me feel so disgusted and cheap.

 

"Get your damned hands off me!" I screamed at him

and pushed against him to push him away.

He balled up his fist and punched me at once,

and stars exploded at breaking of day.

 

He busted the blood vessels in my eye,

and the bruise was like ink under skin.

It bled like violets soaked in the rain,

pressed between layers to shrivel within.

 

He wanted to hold me, love, console me,

said that it would never happen again;

but I pulled apart and undreamed the dreams,

tucking them neatly in the back of my brain.

 

I was so broken and shattered inside.

My self-confidence had gone on retreat.

I was a shadow, unloved, unwanted,

a leftover remnant of vile defeat.

 

He found me in a moment of weakness,

when the mirror was broken to pieces;

and I felt lucky to be loved at all

with my wings folded in at the creases.

 

You see … life for me was never easy.

The portents lived in my blood and my bones;

and when everything is made of glass,

it’s easy to break it by hurling stones.

 

For three years, I lived outside of myself.

The numbness stripped my solicitude;

and I was a half-me, a no-me: dead,

a specter that haunted my solitude.

 

And I cannot count the numberless ways

that he reduced my being to ashes

and pummeled my world with heartache and pain

between the boomerang and backlashes.

 

It was a late night in February.

The leafless branches pointed to the moon,

and I asked him to leave so I could sleep

as the morning would be arriving soon.

 

He diddled and prattled, refused to leave.

I just couldn’t take it anymore.

"You have to go; I need to sleep," I said,

as I stood there holding open the door.

 

He stood up and pushed me against the wall.

With his fist back and rising in the air,

he screamed at me, "Do you love me or not?"

I knew he would hit me but did not care.

 

It was the final nail in my coffin.

He had already killed me deep inside;

and I gathered the strength to tell him, "No!"

feeling at once that I should have complied.

 

Something in my eyes must have destroyed him.

He could not control me, and I was free.

"That’s it," he said; and then he turned to leave.

I’d broken the chains that wrapped around me.

 

The next day he was apologetic,

and I cried as I listened to him speak.

I wasn’t mad at him; I was mad at me

for being so stupid, helpless, and weak.

 

The memories rolled in like a fog bank:

the cruelty, the jealousy, and all;

the cold steel blade through the back of the door

that I had slammed shut to escape its fall;

 

his stalking and staring through my window;

the time he tried to run my car off the road;

the cursing and drinking; the kicked-in doors;

the threats that sent me into overload;

 

the moments when I held my breath in fear;

the phone calls in the middle of the night;

the way he’d talk with his besotted slur;

how I was always wrong, and he was right.

 

I swore it would never happen to me

having watched it happen to my mother.

I was wrong. I couldn’t have been more wrong!

We were mirror images of each other.

 

Both of us were broken and never healed

like the weakened spine of a worn out book,

and the years of estrangement built a wall

within which we found our own special nook.

 

There was just enough good to offset bad

to make me forgive him and make me stay,

to wrap my arms around the boy in him

whose father was absent and walked away.

 

The dust in his life was much like my own;

and in looking back, I could clearly see:

as my mother and father could not love,

I was living a life not loving me.

 

I did not think I deserved any better.

I lived between lines unable to see

that nothing had to be the way it was

and that I could write my own destiny.

 

It was over; we went separate ways.

All of the leaves fell from our book of hours.

The bridge was burned under an ashen moon

whose filaments fell among the flowers.

 

I had tilted my head to view the sky,

savoring the scent of the rain-washed pines,

when the telephone broke my reverie

and the unexpected news crossed the lines.

 

He had gone out that morning for a swim

in rhythmic waters of the Sông Sài Gon,

and he glided into a memory

whose ghost I shall always reflect upon.

 

The river mistress whispered in his ear,

her fingers floating through his silken hair;

and she kissed him until his lips turned blue.

The life in his eyes was no longer there.

 

He rippled along her passionate waves

and lay his head upon her gentle breast.

She carried him into the afterlife,

unfolding his wings where he came to rest.

 

They found his body with the morning rise

where the river emptied into the sea

like a cradle against the river bank

rocking back and forth ever so gently.

 

Her firstborn belongs to the world of night,

slumbering deep in the palm of the earth;

and she peels back the layers of sadness

wandering far from the land of her birth.

 

I looked at the photographs and letters,

the artwork and the table that he made;

and I ached for the life that had ended,

for all the potential that he let fade.

 

He never believed he was good enough.

He was left behind as a soldier’s son,

as I was abandoned by suicide.

We were both casualties of the gun.

 

I cannot hate him; for, he was broken.

I guess he did the best with what he had.

As I think back on all the could-have-beens,

I can’t help but to feel a little sad.

 

He killed me first, but only in spirit.

I rose like a phoenix from the ashes

while he drifted into the blue abyss

as the Sông Sài Gon covered his lashes.

 

 

 

Author's Note

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Đứng Tiến Ngữyen. While visiting Vietnam with his mother, he drowned in the Saigon River. His father was an American soldier, stationed in Vietnam during the war. When the troops left Vietnam, he left Đứng and his mother behind. The Viet Cong would go through the villages killing anyone that had helped the Americans. While she had kept his father’s identification, she had to destroy it to avoid being caught. Đứng’s mother dyed his hair black in order to make him appear 100% Vietnamese. Even then, however, she had dug a hole in the ground of her hut, over which she kept a rug, and would hide him within it in order to protect him.

By the time she left Vietnam, she had three children, two sons and a daughter. Since she could only carry two in her arms, she left the daughter behind.

Đứng was always deeply affected by the war, having to leave his homeland, and having never known his father. I think that’s what drew me to him in the first place, the fact that neither of us had any memories of our father. As children, however, I think you never feel whole when you are missing that other piece of your life.

Đứng was very artistic. He loved to sing and write songs. He was poetic and loved to draw. He was also very good with his hands. I still own a table that he made by hand. He cut each piece of wood with a handsaw, and it’s just amazing. It’s as perfect today as the day he made it. I actually have the smaller of the two tables that he made. He gave me the one, while he kept the other, stating, “As long as we have these two tables, we’ll be together.” Eventually, he sold his table to get money for alcohol. Only death will separate me from mine.

When I learned of his death, I absolutely fell apart. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t been together or seen each other in about ten years. To me, he had a life worth living; and I just feel so sad because I never feel like he got a fair shake in life. Unfortunately, he could never put the broken pieces of himself together so that he felt whole and worthy, loved and loveable. I empathize because I was the same. There are still times when I feel that way albeit brief.

I hope that he has finally found peace.

Em Yếu Anh

Reviews

[Horizon K.]

Wow, such a stunning poem. The construction of it was, so elegant and clearly a product of deep care and effort. And the story you tell... It makes me wonder, when a victim of domestic abuse still loves the one who hurt her, is that a strength or a weakness? For instead of hate that might come with this standing up for self and leaving the relationship behind, there is a lingering compassion for this man, who and why he was, around all of the excuses of the better person he could have pushed himself to be.
In any case, a powerful story that I'm sure deeply carved the person you are today... Thankyou for sharing this revealing piece...

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

For me, in my case, it's a definite strength. It's a sign of unconditional forgiveness and a sincere wish that he would have accomplished more in his young life. Sometimes, the disadvantages are too big to overcome; and this is the result. Thank you for reading and for leaving such a wonderful review.

[J. Alfred Prufrock]

this is compelling. very well done. i'm not famiiar with the story, but I like your treament very much.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you. Unfortunately, it's not a story. It's a part of my life. :)

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

The time and dedication that it took to create this piece is simply awe inspiring... I find that I tend to write in short snippets, never really fully telling a story, and I am always fascinated by poets who are able to master the art of telling a complete (and dare I say epic) story from start to finish without missing a beat in terms of flow and emotion. I was transfixed by this one; held in place with a steady hand upon my shoulder as I read. Sure this is long, drawn out, deep, but I think that in a shorter telling, the story would have been lost; been only a shadow of what you have put out with this one. Enjoyed the read.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thanks, Sarah. While the memories aren't always pleasant, I felt they were worth telling, truly as homage to a life that departed this world too soon. I really believe that he had great potential; and like so many others, it was never made manifest.

[K. J. Corbin]

This has given me that feeling of absolute emotional presence, that I have struggled to read it in its entirety. All the more reason. Thank you.

[Mark]

The bulk of what I want to say here ought not be in an open Review, and will be dealt with under separate cover.

Suffice to say, that what you have written here is not merely a 45-stanza poem, accomplishment enough in its own right. It is a university-level course in instructing the abused women of the world--I'm sure that course has a name, but I do not know it. I see here the self-loathing, the guilt, the doubt: all the qualities that I as a man would project onto the perpetrator, rather than upon oneself. A woman has a hard-wired ability--NEED, even--to forgive, even when the offense is unforgiveable on the face of it. I envy your ability to rationalize his selfish, violent actions, though I can never understand, let alone emulate it.

From a structural viewpoint, this contains so many lovely devices (I cannot help but chuckle, here) that it resembles a woman's mind: a fine underlayment of rigid order, overlain with the occasional internal rhyme or alliteration, designed to taunt the listener into an expectation (rarely realized), but not so regular as to become sing-song. It is a body of unequalled beauty, bathed with indescribable sorrow, rinsed with unanticipated joys, tenderly toweled by undeserved forgiveness.

Your courage in sharing this horrific experience and your insightful analysis of it are to be commended. You have helped me to comprehend two incomprehensible things: betrayal of a friend, and the forgiveness thereof. Brava!

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

LOL! Your third paragraph regarding the structural viewpoint and its devices resembling the mind of a woman cracked me up. :-) Too funny!

Your words are beautiful and I really appreciate them.

[Lydia Shutter]

Linda, you are an excellent story teller. They say that in order for an artist to be a “true” artist, he or she must suffer...must experience some emotional or physical pain. Dung was an artist and he obviously suffered far too much...making the ultimate sacrifice in the end. The fact that this was not a fictional story makes your poem even better! You introduced us to Dung and told us so much about him that I felt as though I knew him. How fortunate you are to still have a table he made for you. You must cherish it! What a stunningly emotional tribute this is! Lydi**

[Tom Brosman]

From your writing, I feel that you have known pain, deeply. It is why your writing is real. I am sorry for your losses, but the things you have learned to get here, make you more than a writer.
Tom

[MsJewel]

I find it difficult to tell a story within a poem, but you have done it brilliantly. To read your author's note and find this is true and not fiction, truly touched my heart. You have an incredible talent. I am so glad I found this poem today and I hope you have found peace writing this beautifully bittersweet tribute.

:) Julie

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thanks, Julie. This was just one of those poems that had been whispering in my ear for years, begging to be written. I finally took the time to let it speak and breathe and be. Thank you for taking the time to read and review. I appreciate the feedback. Have a better-than-fabulous day. :-)

[Daniel Sala]

A very complete poem, and very honest in its portrayal of two people beyond the two-dimensional (helps to read the author's note after, thanks), an absorbing read - especially for what could seem like a very long poem but it flies by in a positive and not a fast sense. Very real, a marvellous read.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you, Daniel. I really appreciate the response. This is undeniably a long poem, much longer than I intended. Yet, it had to be written. Thank you for staying with me on the long journey.

[Daniel Sala]

A pleasure, Linda, better a long journey filled with spectacular views than a short one you get off the train halfway through due to utter boredom at the shapeless landscape. It's a lovely tribute to a human being.

[soliloquy]

This is a fantastic tribute! Very well done.