Man, Woman, & Child - A Circle of Life.

There's a woman,
then a man.

The two are at a bar,
but not together.
The man is with two friends,
the woman one friend
but that friend is lost

So the woman stands by herself,
having fun on the dance floor.
All whilst the man plots himself a fun night.

The mans pals cheer him on,
and the woman's gals not anywhere in sight.

The pals are laughing as the man walks up to the woman,
and the gals are oblivious to the woman as the man approaches.
' Let me treat you.'
' That'd be nice. '
She's sealed her fate, unknowingly, unwillingly.

So the man treats her to just one drink,
and the woman allows it.
She's smiling, laughing with the man.
Her gals nowhere to be seen,
and his pals out of the scene.

Even in the crowded place, it's just the two, and the bartender,
who's treats keep coming as the man orders them,
and they go straight to the woman.

' Some fun? '
' I think not. '
' Just one. '
And that just one turns into just three, just four, just five.

The woman is 'willingly' brought into a car,
too happy to say no.
The man is also happy,
just in a different way.
They make it to the mans house,
where he has a basketball hoop.
Except that isn't his sport of interest tonight,
nor what he plans to score.

He leads her up to the front door,
hand on waist,
cracking some jokes
insuring her happiness
and her cooperation.

They lay in bed, slowly working at each other's clothes,
slowly flowing deeper and deeper into desire.
The drugs in their system fueled the erotic love,
hands grabbing at each other,
pulling each other in more and more,
emotionally & physically.

They say what decisions you make one night,
you better be ready to live with them the next morning.
She was not.
She finds herself awake besides a guy she's known nine hours,
and she's sold her body to this man.
She's sold her innocence to this man.
She's sold her virginity to this man.
She's sold her soul to this man.
The man is proud, he can't believe he's obtained the beauty beside him,
a woman to worship,
to love.
Does she know this?

The weeks passed,
she feels she's sold herself to him
so why should she not know him?
As time goes on,
the woman realizes the man isn't a slimy monster
and the man realizes she's much more than something to be obtained.

It takes months to commit,
the man wants a relationship,
the woman doesn't want to rush.
Every month he begs and pleads,
their deeds in her mind are just benefits.
' I love you, is that not enough? '
' Then why can't you make that official, '
he asks.
' why must it be temporary. '

After six months,
she agrees.
And yet only after two years,
they engage,
and they marry.

They are twenty six,
not much money,
and their parents are old, and unsupportive.
Financials are in question,
and their wedding is small.
Thirty seven guests,
both sides combined.
It's in Missouri, their hometown,
their only Italy-like photos are if you can imagine a corn field the beautiful pale towers and shimmering blue sea.

They are married now,
husband and wife,
every commitment made.
The man works a nine to five,
the woman a waitress.

The man comes home stressed,
knowing he is the money-maker that is barely considered a savings.
They can't pay the mortgage,
and the woman's piteous job that people sneer at,
only makes money if her blouse is low enough,
and her hair is matured
but not too matured.

' Come to bed, ' she says. ' De-stress my love. '
And so he complies.

Like that night when they were twenty three,
the man dragging his points to the hoop.
This time it's the woman dragging her love to escape.

Weeks pass, they are still struggling.
The man isn't getting a raise,
the woman isn't cashing in more tips.
And now she has to tip out back of house from her money.
The woman is sick,
in the mornings she vomits
and in the afternoons she's aching.

She goes to the drugstore
and buys a test.
' Hurry up, ' he chants. ' I'm nervous damnit. '
' So am I. Quit yelling. ' She spikes back.

...

' Bad news. '

...

The man has tried pestering for a raise,
and the woman has picked up as many shifts as she can for first trimester.
' How can we afford this? ' He's always picking a fight at home.
' I don't know. '
' I can barely afford you, let alone a child. '
' Do you think I want this thing either? '
' I should just leave. '
' I wish you would most nights. '

...

They haven't spoken for about thirteen hours now,
they went to bed without a word,
and the silence fueled by regret.
The next morning they awake,
he grabs a coffee, not bothering to wake her up.
They already see little of another,
only meeting face to face on the weekends.
He goes to work at 9am, returns at 5pm.
She goes to work at 6pm, returns at 3am.
The two see nothing of another.
They see each other in the morning,
the man wakes the woman to say goodbye.
' Goodbye, dear. I'll be back to say hello. '
Except he doesn't say that this morning.
He leaves in silence.

She wakes up, 11:30am.
She looks at the time, her other half gone.
He didn't wake her, and she knows why.
The woman stands up, making her way to the bathroom, staring in the mirror.
Disgusting.
Her hair is jungle, and the bump on her belly just looks like fat this point in time.
She has faint bags on her eyes, and her skin is covered in bumps and red circular scars.

She washes her face, spending the next hour perfectly contouring, concealing, and hiding her every flaw.
Men don't like flaws, how else will she make money?
The women won't tip,
so she relies on the appeal to the opposite sex, and the wealthy.

Two o'clock pulls around,
she is covering for someone else today.
She is dressed in a black t shirt, low cut v, of course
black leggings, the ones that help hug her in nice ways,
and a white apron.
The restaurant likes to think it's fancy.

Her hair worn down,
curled neatly for others pleasures.
She knows she'll make more in tips this way.

...

Nightfall, it's 10pm. She's come home early, she's sick to her stomach.
Her husband awaits there,
not happily.
' You're home early. '
' I hate this. '
' I know. ' And he pulls her in lovingly,
letting her rest against him.
Neither apologizes verbally; they'll apologize through sign.

The clock strikes midnight,
the woman is laying on the couch,
watching American Housewife.
The man has just walked in the door,
he's gotten her Sonic.
She is hungry, starved it feels, despite she's eaten six hours ago.
' Thanks love. '
' Mhm. '
He walks away.

A few months have passed now, she's five months in.
She's felt even sicker, even worse.
They've had numerous doctor visits,
even the females don't listen to her needs, let alone concerns.

By month seven she's stopped getting up to take care of herself,
she wears as much baggy clothing as possible,
once a medium is now an extra, extra large.
' Are you ashamed of our child? '
' ..you were too at one point. '
They end it there.

Month eight.
The woman is fat,
odorful,
sleep depriven,
she can barely walk without it truly being a waddle,
and hasn't washed her hair in days.
She's feeling sick or getting sick,
and her food cravings and aches drive them both mad.

The woman is miserable.
She's had no baby shower,
nor any help,
and won't have a secured hospital birth.
They can't afford the bills.
All while the man continues to fight for a raise,
and is always gone during when she needs him most.
He works even when he's not at work,
now having to do all the chores the woman once did,
the man is miserable.
He's tired,
the woman having constant mood swings
and he's the only one it can be taken out on.
He wishes he had left
just like the woman requested.

Though not all days end in regret,
or anger
some end in fun,
others end in love.
Most end in reminiscence
reflecting back to friendly debate they’ve had,
a movie marathon,
or some evening tea, about the latest news.
All those end in affection, gratitude, and desire.

Fourteen hours later, and a hell of a lot of crying,
and their baby is born.
A healthy girl,
a beautiful, scrunched up mess of joy.
‘ How could we of ever felt any regret to her? ‘
‘ I don’t know, but we never will again. ‘
Oh, how they were wrong.

The woman and her baby were held for two days in the hospital, something with her vitals. Or the baby’s. They aren’t sure, and probably won’t be.

Once released, they go home.
The woman carries the baby in her arms as the man drives them all home, who can barely keep his eyes on the road.

They’re home,
flourishing in the delight
of their baby girl.
The newborn scrunch,
they thought it was stupid, but now they have a child
and that child is adorable.
All it can do is babble,
mumble whatever questions it has
to itself.

The date is now June of 2013,
the baby girl is now a year and a half,
and it hasn't spoken.
' Why isn't she speaking? '
' I don't know dear. It's okay, she has plenty of time. ' he assures her.

The date is now March of 2015,
the baby girl is now three,
and it hasn't spoken.
It walks, occasionally falling with that laughable grace,
yet not even a grunt when it does.
' She still isn't speaking. '
' Give it time. ' he assures her.

The date is now September of 2016,
the baby girl is now four,
and yet still it not utter a word
but now people notice.
A teacher sits the man and woman down,
right after pickup time.
' We are a month into school, ' she begins. ' and Irene has not said a word. '
' We are working on it. ' he assures.
' She's four. '
' Are you shaming us? ' the woman spikes.
' Not at all- '
' We are done here. '
' Grab your things, Irene. It's okay. ' he assures.
And Irene leaves in silence.

When they arrive home, they fight.

' She still won't speak! Is this not enough to convince you, something is wrong with her? '
' Nothing is wrong with her. ' he assures.
' She is four years old and hasn't even made a sound. How you not see? '
' I see our perfect daughter. '
' I see a concern. '
And the fight continues.

Irene has Irene's reasons for not speaking, but what are they?
Irene does not speak,
Irene chooses silence.
When it's parents talk,
they are shot down by the other.
A perfect representation of what will happen to Irene.
Every word ends in yelling,
every sentence a fight.
And Irene doesn't see the point.
Or that it's over Irene.

May 19th, 2017.
Five.
' She still hasn't said a word. '
' Patience. '

May 20th, 2018.
Six.
' She's six now. '
' Patience. '

October 21st, 2018.
Six and a half.
' We should really look into therapy. '
' Patience. '

March 22nd, 2019.
Seven.
' Patience. ' he assures.
' Screw your patience. '
The woman is yelling, and the man is yelling now too.
Irene is playing with her toys,
and knows whenever someone speaks,
it ends in violence.

Irene doesn't speak, it knows if it does, Irene will become it's parents.
That Irene's biggest fear.
If being alone,
means friends, solitude, and happiness,
Irene will take that
over anything.
Because not speaking
will always be better
than being in ruins.

December 23rd, 2021.
Nine.
The stockings are up,
and the lights are bright.
They dazzle against the evergreen tree,
topped with a dusting of fake gray and glittery snow.
The tree stands tall,
all sorts of different colored lights
ones that people may call 'tacky.'
The fireplace of fake wood creates a orange, fiery hue
one that makes even the saltiest souls
turn sweet.
But there are no presents,
stuck under this joyous tree
no presents
to send Irene into a happy fall.
Irene walks out every morning,
to see yet no presents under the tree
until the last day.

Irene's parents want to teach Irene the patience of waiting,
to not fear the unknown - at least they say.
However, Irene knows the truth.
And the truth is that the man hasn't gotten paid enough
for any gifts,
and the man and woman wait last minute
till everything goes on a heavy sale.

The man and woman buy everything they can for their baby girl,
trying to spoil it,
show it there is nothing wrong with life or speaking.
' Maybe joy will bring her voice,' the woman believes.
' Or maybe, her voice is being saved. '
' She needs to speak. '

Christmas morning,
children usually waking up screaming at six am.
Wanting to open presents.
Irene however
does not.
Irene sleeps in,
it's parents wake Irene around 8:30.
' Irene, ' her mother's voice is soft, and full of calm cheer ' wake up. '
' Merry Christmas! ' Her father on the other hand, usually quite loud. Especially on this morning.
Irene sits up, a silent face does not match an ecstatic expression
and Irene runs downstairs, faster than a balloon flying from a child's hand.

The Christmas tree is lit, it's lights chanting a happy hymn
yet there is no actual joy to it.
A tree, that's all it is.
So why must we associate ourselves with it and Christ?
That, if you believe.
Or maybe you're Jewish,
maybe you celebrate another religion or trial
but why is it always lights and tree's?
Irene could never understand.
What Irene did understand, was under that tree there would lie countless presents,
boxes of money and pride
boxes that it'd show to it's friends at school!
Till this year,
there were two.

' Money is tight, ' Irene's mother says that phrase a lot. ' but we can go anywhere you want for dinner maybe. '
That excuse was used on Irene's birthday too.

Irene sits down, right at the edge of the tree; parents at Irene's side.
It grabs the box, and shakes it.
' What are you doing? Go ahead, open it sweetie. ' The woman pushes fourth, and so Irene opens it.
Inside is a figure, one with two arms, two legs, & button eyes. Hair of yarn, and softer than could be.
Irene places it beside it, then looks into the next box, tearing at the wrapping paper.
Inside in a book, 'Noise; by Kathleen Raymundo.'
Irene stares at the book, & knows exactly what it's parents are trying to say. Again.

At school, the children talk & laugh about their gifts,
' Santa brought me Polly Pockets! ' One girl cheers,
' Oh? Well, Santa brought me a Stanley. ' another exclaims.
' What the heck is so great about a cup?' Says a boy.
Then, they turn to Irene.
' What'd you get, Silent Sue? '
' It's not like she's gonna respond - she can't talk! Remember? '
' Oh yeah. Right. That's sad. '
That's the highpoint of Irene's day.

July 25th, 2023.
Eleven.
Irene has been in speech therapy,
the teachers seemed to of finally gotten through.
Irene has been there for about three weeks now,
& yet no progress. They begin a different language.

' Irene, ' the therapist begins as they are all sat across from Irene's parents.
' she is so very, very bright. But she won't speak - our best here is to teach the language of silence. '
' ..the language of silence? But we not know it either. ' The woman looks to the man.
' Then we'll just have to learn, now won't we? ' The man doesn't look to the woman.

January 27th, 2025.
Thirteen.
Irene can hear mumbling from the other side of the house.
She doesn't do anything. ' The woman shouts.
' Okay, okay. We'll have her start doing stuff. ' The man tries.
' No I'm sick of it. She's acted spoiled & useless for the last of the months, I want her to do stuff. '
' Then we will. '
' You say that every time, she still does nothing around this house. '
' Don't snap at me. ' He says.
' You're snapping at me! ' She shouts.
' Love-- '
' Just shut up. '

June 28th, 2026.
Fourteen.
The mumbles over the years have gone to talking.
' You're useless. Absolutely useless. ' The man shouts.
' I'm useless? You sit on your back all day and have a cold one! ' The woman tries.
' That's because you and her stress me half to death. '
' And yet I'm the one still taking care of our baby girl. '

Irene walks downstairs, emerging from the shadow of it's room.
' --about as stupid as when I met you. '
' The hell did you say to me? ' The man is angry now. Irene has seen this before.
' I said you're about as stupid as when we met! '
' You should be glad we met. I'm the reason you have this life. '
' I'd rather be dead than live this dread any longer. '
' I should just leave. ' The man says.
' I wish you would most nights. ' The woman agrees.

December 31st, 2029.
Seventeen.
This Christmas was not so merry,
not so blessing.
With money comes more presents,
as they have plenty now.
But money can only buy happiness for some.
The woman spent her nights in the bedroom,
Irene spent it's nights in it's bedroom,
and the man spent his nights in another woman's bedroom.
That's his money.

Everyone is going off for the holidays,
their robotic assistants looking over the household & it's furry inhabitants
but not Irene.
Not the woman.
Not the man.
They stay in their home,
(the man in another)
and they reflect.
They reflect the joy
they reflect the sad
they reflect the angry
they reflect the love.
The love that never truly existed.

January 1st, 2030.
Eighteen.
A new month
a new day
a new year
a new age
a new school
a new home.
The adult that can move out,
the adult that can rebirth into a new home
a healthier one.
College, Irene is off. It moves to she, a new woman.
She is ready.

Months it took,
half time therapy
a little speech impressions.
' ' Irene! ' ' They call,
' ' Hello. ' ' She replies - a voice so soft it makes lions sleep, birds hush and water still. The world pauses under her breath, letting her years of silence push away and her voice of an angel echo through it's air.

Irene. She is a woman. A woman who won't drink. A woman who won't be silenced. And a lesbian.