Corrinne Clegg Hales
Testimony
On the way to church we’d pass the place
The neighbor boy’s body had been
Found a few days after his father
Beat in his brown-haired head
With a quart-sized root beer bottle.
The first day we made ourselves go straight
To the spot—some broken glass, a bare space
In the field, the dirt turned
A little, as if someone had thought
Of a garden and given it up. Nothing else.
After that we began to swerve,
Making a new path through thick summer
Weeds. Inside scrubbed church walls,
The world looked different. Soft-edged
Women sat, fanning themselves slowly
With pastel cardboard fans, moving only
Their slender wrists, staring out
Into the blue air. Babies slept easily
In their laps, safe, believing in good mothers
Who would catch them if they rolled
And hold them if they cried. One by one
People stood, moved to testify
To their faith in a merciful Jesus. Turning
Faces toward the smooth white ceiling,
They'd give thanks and plead for their lives.
* * *
At seventeen, I'd already learned
What a man could do to me
If he chose to. Each new time
He climbed on top of me, I was trusting him
With my life. He’d hold my wrist
Between his thumb and finger, saying:
I could snap this in a second, or your arm,
Or your neck. And I knew the rancid taste
Of gratitude when he let me live.
That may be why, on a hot August morning
When I first saw my own baby,
I was overcome by the uneasy revelation
That giving birth is not giving life—
Birth had been mostly out of my control.
But those tiny wrists, her fingers,
Her delicate wobbly head, told me clearly
That she was at my mercy. I’d have to decide
Again every day to let her live.
* * *
When the woman on the fifteenth floor began
Throwing her children out the window
One by one, the citizens of Salt Lake City
Were powerless to stop her. We ran back and forth
In the streets below, begging her
To have mercy on the children. We would have
Given her anything—money, our houses and cars, even love,
To save one of those falling bodies. And we would have fallen
Happily to our own knees in the ripe gratitude
Of an errant child whose punishment, on a whim,
Has been miraculously rescinded. But mercy,
After all, is just another word
For power, and on that clean city sidewalk,
As we covered up what was left, we began to understand
Our position. She was closer to her ancient god
Than any of us could imagine, and she had accepted
The terrible responsibility that comes with being
Above other people.
From Separate Escapes (Ashland Poetry Press, 2002).