Jen If is a survivor of ritual abuse and an organised mind control programme. ‘Monarch Child‘ is nineteen poems about her earliest memories of international child trafficking, these memoir poems are about her experience as a small child subject to organised mind control. They may be upsetting or triggering for survivors of MC.
Like Mother, Like Daughter
Our matching eyes
of distant rain.
Remnants of sun through
her ever-shifting hair.
Vest and pants
in a scarlet case,
night dress and a squash-nosed bear,
like an overnight stay.
Did her hands overflow with love,
shame,
or lies,
when she passed that child,
to not-her-uncle?
Mother’s Words
These are my mother’s words.
Brew, ciggie, vehicle, yobbo, youths, wallop!
Knackers yard, like the clappers, phlegm, powers-that-be.
Hold your horses. Ye Gods! Kingdom Come.
Ratfink. Ratstails. Runt. Bitch.
What-can-I-do
and
No one will ever love you.
Words that sp-
lit and spit like scalding saliva.
The chief of these words?
Dirty.
Dirty.
Dirty.
As in: The dog has done a
and
You are.
The ones with the longest life?
What-can-I-do.
Not a question but
a statement of apathy,
a declaration of defeat,
a demand for absolution.
My mother gave me her words.
Ye Gods!
I’m learning another tongue.
An Ipod Full Of Songs
Shriek of gulls, rain-pregnant cloud, salt-n-vinegar, lip-licking anticipation,
wind of wings by your face, thieving birds, spray of chips,
running for cover, heart thumping, mac sleeves swishing,
friend-sweary-hugs and squawking, burping laughter.
Does this moment weigh the same as any other
you carry in your pocket?
Is a memory of cold calamine lotion on a stinging-nettle welt,
or the sharp moon in a blue and orange sky as you tasted your first kiss,
and gave away your unripe heart,
easier or harder to carry than one of hot, soupy air,
thick with the stink of freshly cleaved people,
of blood and bitter bile?
Or is it all the same?
These heavy steps.
Feet like magnets to the ground.
Can’t stand up straight.
Stay awake.
Each time I empty my pockets,
there are more pockets.
An iPod full of songs weighs more than one without.
Is a memory like a song?
Is a love song heavier than a funeral march?
BY OURSELVES | ABOUT OURSELVES | FOR OURSELVES | FOR EACH OTHER | 