Poetry: Payback’s Bitch

Payback’s Bitch / Crib Crud Vomit and Other Scenarios
By Hope Marcus

Older sister, I recall your daughter, a resplendent pink curl
like her own newborn she’d snugged and swaddled
more than a decade ago.

“We come from a family of love,” your daughter had said,
oblivious to her infanthood, what came before —

that day my kitchen a confessional, absolving you—her mother—
when your coping failed, and neglect triumphed
along with unwashed bottles and crib crud vomit.

Your daughter would not remember those years,
your ineptness, the sleaze before our younger sister,
Carole, stepped up.

Her rescuing innate,

our sister cradled, and bathed, cleaned and fed.
An outdoor market then her livelihood,
she rented your station wagon weekends,
leasing a truck more reliable and
easier than dealing with you
but you needed cash, and a home.

Our sister gave both: cash for your clunker
plus a home she’d bought for returns
that you instead would gain from,
with daughter, a niece upon whom Carole
lavished bright mornings, and dinners and
bedtimes with clean sheets.

 “Family above all else,” our sister believed.

2

Years later when all the giving ran out
  —the house sold, and profits pocketed —
you swaggered over to our mother’s place,
her vacant condo your next big take.

A single key turn, and voila! the lights went on.
Two bedrooms, spanky clean,
a Chagall print with floaty women,
arms wrapped around children. For you alone,
a self declared firstborn right— year after year
while and during the time our
younger sister’s world caved in.

With Carole’s plight evident, you exploited
our mother’s schizophrenia, playing her
to your advantage, again and again.
‘You must leave; it’s Carole’s turn,’
our mother had pleaded. 'I'll call the police.'
‘But Mom, my bed is here.’ Happy you, victory.

More wins on rent you failed to pay,
a signed lease you rebuffed,
fair play intended for Carole
what our mother wanted,
all she could offer in lieu of your refusing
to share or give Carole a chance.

And never mind Carole’s boys, our mother
inquiring about graham crackers and fresh
milk for her grandsons, as if that would suffice.
She also assuming a refrigerator and kitchen table.

“Carole’s a survivor,” you insisted,
a no charge stay too good to pass up
as our sister struggled for breath, refuge,
— homeless —
nights in her car, your concerns on
nail polish, burnt orange, and mutual funds
how much they accrued.

Still tallying — oops — there I was,
out of hospital, into recovery and a grocery store,
Carole’s advocate, face-to-face.
Not even a cursory, ‘glad you made it,’ better me dead,
you embracing your rent free turf instead.

A trophy usurped from a feeble parent in nursing home
who nightmared over which daughter to choose.

Then our mother back to vacancy. And for you, the yet to come.

3

Where our sister had mapped stars, created women from flames,
you chased the mundane — office supplies, pens and paper clips,
inessentials, replaceables —

 the expendable — like your sister became.

Her bones picked, the trashing complete until near end: rebirth —
affirmation, replenished clarity just before her heart pounding,
ruptured, imploding from stress, she died age 52.

“You’ll be sorry; you’ll live to regret this,”
her final words to you only days earlier.

Then gone from her children, a fiancée,
and me.

4

Here in the present — years forward, eleven since
Carole died, you learned your daughter visited,
returned to the fold, cousins reunited plus
grandkids, yours and mine, in my home where
you were not. For the first time,
a new generation of family together

and now you,

suddenly nostalgic

want back in.

My, my, you couldn’t make up this stuff.

“Oust, thee besmirched, what has thee sired?”

5

Big sister, eldest of three, the opera you sought,
the firstborn privilege you claimed
remain intact as does the savagery you spewed —
molesting the tormented, our mother,
and the cast aside, our sister,
next up your daughter and grandchildren —
toying with them: ultimatums — either you or the highway
because you’ve been left out.

Oh, cunt you, mistress of cons and cunning, all that is craven —
plundering the sisterhood our Carole cherished — her belief in you.
Your transgressions will not erase, cannot be expunged
they are indelible, a stain upon faith, the faith our sister lived by:
her trust in family above all else.

6

For all the years

your blood flows

wrestle those scavengers

whose ravenous eyes

infiltrate the night

in dreams and awake

lurking as shadows

their silence rising

louder and louder

until that grief —

howls of the unredeemed,

find you.

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