Was it the sight
of my budding breasts,
Which seemed to
Sprout suddenly,
Like the hyacinths
in our spring garden?
Was it the shape
of my oblivious legs,
Which seemed to
Swell suddenly,
Like oats boiling over
on the stove?
Was it the sound
Of my defiant voice?
Which seemed
To grate suddenly,
Like our old sash window
Stuck in its frame?
When did my father
Succumb to fear,
Which seemed
To descend suddenly,
Like the dreaded iron curtain
From his cold war?
When did I
Become untouchable?
Which seemed
To chill suddenly,
Like a coffin closing
On my child’s body?
Poetry Croft 