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Night Sounds Revisited


Jane Butkin Roth


��I lie in my own bed, own a child’s body, own a child’s heart, need my bedtime story, need my mama’s kiss, some sweet lullaby she sings-- I know she sings-- but I have no mama, there’s no childhood here, no bedtime comforts, only night noise; that’s our ritual. And what I fear is what I know, and I know there is no safety where there is this sound. Someone! Stop the noise, my night sounds. Mama! Rescue me! My heart beats wild, jump-starts in the dark as his footsteps move closer. Coming for me, or my brother.... And I climb on my familiar ride, my wave of nausea, as I brace myself again against that first slice. That’s when I hear the sound of his footsteps and my ripping flesh; it’s one noise. Schoolmates safe at home have their tooth fairies and their mamas who smell of rosewater, have their fathers who read Grimms, or play catch after dinner... and all the while, we are dancing to a tangled and discordant music; we memorize the steps, know the refrain... by heart. It’s all-- routine. I say my prayers, make my nightly promise to my dead mama, to my brother, to myself: I will not cry; refuse to shed one tear. I will not give my Daddy that.




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