He called my name,
my full given name
pronounced each syllable
that my mother spoke
the day I was born.
He called my name,
like he knew my gait
how each foot landed
when I walked to Sunday School
in too tight patent leather shoes.
He called my name,
as though he were calling
his church congregation to pray
at the altar and cast out demons,
healing the lame and sick.
He called my name,
with engagement ring in hand,
calling my soul to be a part
of his side; his rib
forming this woman from clay.
He called my name,
with a voice filled with tender
caresses instead of brutal
beatings that occurred
every week since we met.
He called my name,
and I said, “no, you’re not
worthy to say those syllables
from a serpents tongue”;
he no longer calls my name.
(c) 2015 by Joyce M. Rose-Harris
This poem was inspired by women I have spoken to women directly impacted by domestic violence. It is to highlight that domestic violence is present in varying relationships even those we don’t suspect.
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