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Not Today
His fingers,
Smooth,
Supple,
melting into the soft flesh of my neck.
His breath,
Warm,
Familiar,
embracing, caressing my cheek as though to move in
for loves
sweet kiss.
The wall,
Cold,
Unyielding,
against the delicate skin of my back.
His voice,
Hazy,
Hollow,
as he taints the air with the foul stench of his judgments
on life,
on love,
on me.
The blade,
Menacing,
Ominous,
waving around wildly in a hand once used to soothe.
My tears,
Saturating,
Humiliating,
betray the fear silently screaming from within,
not today,
not today,
please God,
not today.
Amanda Dexter like many other Canadians,
is an aspiring author.
She writes poetry, short stories, essays, and is working on a novel.
She currently
resides in the far North of Alberta, where she works as a grade six teacher.
The community in which she lives is a Mennonite Community, which is very
different from her upbringing. She is originally from Liverpool, Nova Scotia where she spent the first
24 years of her life. Upon graduation she moved to Halifax,
Nova Scotia and completed a B.Sc. with an Advanced Major in Psychology at Dalhousie University.
She then completed a B.Ed. at Acadia University, in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. The poem presented here is part
of a series in progress
based on personal experience.
Email: Amanda Dexter
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