A poem by Matt Coppens

I can look out, into nothing
with my eyes squinted, hazy, dusty, smoky.
Hold my eyes closed and see.

I can see my mother walking beside my father’s
blue 1967 Chevy convertible, refusing to get in
as we coast slowly along, she at the roadside.
I can feel the cold white leather seats
on my young thighs and behind as my two older sisters
sit in silence beside me.

I can see my father slamming hard on his breaks,
jerking the car into park, exiting the vehicle,
hear the frightened cry of my oldest sister
‘He hit her! Oh my God! He hit her!’.
I can still see my mother getting up off the ground,
blood oozing from her nose from where my father had
just slapped her to the ground.
Hear her sobs as she steps back into the now parked car seconds before
my father begins driving again.
I can still hear my father shouting at me from the front seat
to knock off all ‘that goddamn noise’
as I’m reciting the ABC’s aloud so as to ease my terrified 5 year old mind,
so as to hold the tears building up from bursting from my eyelids.

Then-

I can open my eyes. Blink. Reopen my eyes.
See clearly. See the beautiful sunlight.
Breathe in the clean fresh pure air.
Feel at one with all that is around me.
Peace.
See, I can play make believe.
That’s my trick.

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