The Cellar

so dark, the cellar
there before time
there after death
in the mind
each time they sit on a chair
they remember the gathered
ball of knotted string

their hands tied for
hours of punishment
to scream was futile
ankles entwined so tight
they made Achilles free

so many saved knots
to bind them up
to kill the play
and fling the inner child
into the abyss of time

where it's howling ghost
still calls
in 4 a.m. chords

--Diane Schmolka

The above poem is a poem of child abuse. Both my mother and my aunt Winnie abused their children. My aunt tied her boys to chairs for hours, and left them in a cellar or dark room for hours at a time. My mother spanked me hard, in great anger, and flung verbal abuse at me while she did it. I have not brought up my children that way.

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