Brown Paper

With large envelope clutched stood Betty.
Slight woman built from an Aspen:
Sapling braches for limbs and topped by
a wiry, white, mossy perm dripping sad.
She, Shiloh, said, “For me?” taking the mail.
Shi studied handwritten scratchy scrawl.
Revulsion, rage ran a cold finger
through her pooled nerves: tattered and frayed.
“Is that you?” Betty inquired pointing at Lola.
Shi nodded, “Yes, it is. A nickname, yes.”
The Aspen wilted bidding a goodnight.
Shi dropped the package onto the floor.
Pouring a drink – vermouth, olives, vodka –
Pulling a chair into the middle of the room
Shi sat with martini in hand glaring
At the past that had grown spindly legs,
scampered into her life and began
staring up at her like an insolent child.
Lola. Even after much silence, still a joke.
A sexual joke to that son of a bitch.
He called her Lola after the wedding which
Tied her to him and him to her mother.
A nickname from a favorite old book,
Shi likened it to being older, mysterious,
Every child desires a personal mystery.
He called her Lola until mom died.
Shi was twelve and he being forty-eight,
When murderous cancer took mom away.
He took her to bed, dead mother’s bed,
Tickled her, she laughed, he raped, she fought.
He called her by her full name – Lo. Lee. Ta.
He consoled, she cried. She left, he cried.
One bark, Shi was pulled from her cruel mind.
Pete barked again, whined looking back at
The squawking albatross in brown paper.
“Nothing good can come of this,” Shi whispered.
Pete could not be calmed or soothed,
He remained at attention – a soldier
Too frightened to stand at ease.