Strawberry Pie

We do not speak ill of the dead.

You will not say what Grandpa did to you,

even if it is true.

Mother to daughter

the crime goes on.

Remarkable, really – clever, almost

how he got his own victims to keep his secret,

even after he was gone.

still …

Furtive voices among the clamor, family reunion.

Tendrils of truth pass between women,

words spoken between slices of strawberry pie:

It really happened and I believe you.

The story is heard in pieces and bits

Told in stops and starts, glances and silences

Over time, by different players

We have conversations about conversations,

Wonder aloud what has never been spoken

did it happen to her too? we’ll never know.

when, what did you know? oh no, not the little ones,

cousins, at least a few - have you asked your sister?

it would explain some things …

But we were a happy family.

No, it didn’t happen to me, except …

the hands, a back rub, a wrong feeling, just once in a while.

Yes, yes - my aunt says - he had wandering hands.

Another generation passed, your secret has gone rancid

and our family tree is spitting out your silent perversion

in poisonous, adult-sized problems.

And I,
I have something to tell my daughter …

©2016 Donna Jo Wallace