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Open Poetry #14
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Mouse in a Jar
| Open Poetry #14 |
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Mouse in a Jar |
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theLadypoet Member
since 2001-05-28
Posts 97Or USA |
MOUSE IN A JAR Living in Oregon City was like having the universe inverted, so that its greasy, malodorous entrails dripped like rain. He came and took me from the battered women’s shelter. Drove up the long drive, sprang out like some Halloween monster and demanded that I get my s**t. I could not breathe, all my illusions of freedom winged away from me like nervous birds. He always found me. Someone had seen me pushing the baby in the stroller and rushed to curry his favor by betraying me. The dope man is powerful. All he has to do is wave that little plastic bag so that the dope clings to its sides – and whatever he wants is his. I was not the first woman he had driven to that shelter, but I didn’t know. I believed every word he said. I was, by this time, quite insane. It didn’t show. I wouldn’t let it show, for if I did I would lose my child. My daughter had let me raise Jessica from birth. It was my hand that cut the umbilical cord. To lose her would send me into hell. We were homeless. We lived in a battered old Pinto station wagon. It was a complicated mosaic of times, etched by his constant arrests, abuse and time in jail. I knew I would die without Jessica. I knew she deserved better than what I could give her. That time came…my daughter gave her up for adoption. And thus began the insanity. Slow Eddie lived on a hill in Oregon City. I don’t know if there was a Fast Eddie. My husband sold Slow Eddie crank. The tweakers thought it was hilarious to watch him tweak. One late afternoon Eddie had his hit of dope and spent hours – far into the night, picking up every tiny thing on his lawn that was not grass. Sometimes the serious dopers would grow impatient with Eddie’s constant commotion, and they would give him a jar of screws, all sizes and types. Eddie would sort and pick until the raspy squeak of his knife moving the screws drove me into a frenzy. I liked Slow Eddie. Eddie had a crush on me, so he begged us to come stay in his tiny house on the hill. Eddie’s house was a tour through every filth that ever existed. No breath would pump my lungs that first night. As the hours passed, while I waited for the junkies to come home, I cleaned in a hazy panic. We had a room with two mouldering, stink-laden, sprung-spring couches. Those were our beds. Finally, exhausted, my body fell onto the pile I had made by laying out every piece of clothing we had. My lungs refused to inflate, refused to let the foul stench of Slow Eddie’s little hovel mark its territory in me. My husband traded my services as a maid. And I considered it a blessing when compared with what he had wanted me to do. My arm still blared with bloody stripes from my refusal to trade my tired body for dope. These were my stripes, not his. I had gouged my face the same way, one of my weary refusals to cooperate. At last I roused myself and found the kitchen. The first thing I saw was an antique wood stove worth a fortune. Too big for the crankers to carry off. The next thing I saw brought a horrified shriek of revulsion; my starving bell spasmed. On the counter, sewered with filth, were beer mugs – some full of water, for soaking, I guess. Bobbing in one of the mugs was a newly-dead mouse! It was an horrific sight, little body stretched full out, tiny mouse feet held as if in prayer. My gagging, hoarse cries were ignored by the tweakers. It took me a long, slow trickle of minutes to get my husband into the kitchen. He looked at the mouse as if everyone with a kitchen had a dead mouse in a jar. He gave me his “disgusted with my stupidity” look, and took away the horrible mug, only to bring it back empty and expect me to wash it for use. My insides screamed that I should break every mug…then set a cleansing fire to the hideous little house. Nine days without food. One day Slow Eddie’s father roared up on his Harley hog and got into a fight with my husband, playing a slow game of “who’s got the biggest knife. He ordered us out. Steeped in insanity, I packed. We drove away, having no place to go. Seems my junkie had the power of dope, but not one friend left anywhere. I liked Slow Eddie, was glad to be gone from the cruelty of the cranksters. His mouse has stayed with me all of my days – good and bad, bobbing, as helpless as I felt. "A woman is like a tea bag, you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water..." Eleanor Rooevelt |
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| © Copyright 2001 Sherry Asbury - All Rights Reserved | |||
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inot2B Member Elite
since 2000-09-18
Posts 2205Arkansas |
I read this then just closed it and went on my way. But had to come back to let you know that not anything is wrong with how you wrote it, you touched on many aspects of the kind of life that drugs bring out in people. It is just hard to read and face. [This message has been edited by inot2B (edited 06-02-2001).] |
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JLR Senior Member
since 2001-02-04
Posts 1785 |
Difficult to read...but worth it! |
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VAS Member Rara Avis
since 2000-11-16
Posts 7450Oregon |
so much to endure, so much to bare to eyes of whomever peeks in. Well written! |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
This is one of the most powerful portrayal I've ever read of this nightmare lifestyle. This needs to be read, by as many as possible. My heart is with you my friend...it's a long road, I know. |
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JamesMichael Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336Kapolei, Hawaii, USA |
Interesting reading...Would you believe a gecko in a SoBe Tropical Fruit Flavored Beverage?...James |
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Mr»ÄlleÿÇät Member
since 2001-06-02
Posts 190 |
I found it lovely and not hard to read at all. You touched but a moment in that sad life. Yet said so much Thank you Mr»ÄlleÿÇät  |
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Interloper
since 2000-11-06
Posts 8369Deep in the heart |
It is a difficult read for some of us who have absolutely no idea what goes on in the "drug underworld." Some of us still don't want to know. How can those of us who cannot possibly imagine what you have gone through be empathetic? We can only be sympathetic. And isn't it interesting that boht words contain the word "pathetic?" I hope that doesn't label us as such. If it helps you to write about this ... write on and we will read and try to understand. Regardless, you ARE one of the Passions family and we love you. Fool, said my Muse to me, look in thy heart and write. Philip Sidney (1554-1586) Loving in Truth |
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theLadypoet Member
since 2001-05-28
Posts 97Or USA |
Dear fellow poets, In posting this poem I meant no offense. I a quite well-known locally for my 'dark and disturbing' poetry. I am not trying to shock anyone...nor am I trying to make lovely a hidious lifestyle or force it, by means of my words, onto others. I simply believe Eternal Spirit gave me this talent at birth and I must use it. If I were to tell a young girl how awful it was and to never get involved ... she would hear me with her ears. But if I can paint a paint a picture vivid enough that she reads it with her guts...I may have a shot at putting doubts into her mind. Had I not been so innocent and gullible, maybe none of this would have happened. I thought I could save him...all of them...show them by example of my non-drug use. But there are some evils that breed in the petri dishes of ignorance. theLadypoet "A woman is like a tea bag, you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water..." Eleanor Rooevelt |
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