Symbolic violence

When I was little my dad took a hammer.
In his hands, it moved fast and weightless, efficiently.
The golden ring shines on his finger.
On the exterior it has engraved intertwined leaves
inside, in tiny calligraphy letters, my mother's name.
His hand places the ring on the stone
and then the hammer on the ring, one, two, three, four, five, and many other numbers I haven't learnt how to count yet.
He repeats the task until the ring is no longer a ring but a flat piece of yellow tin.
Tiny cracks on the border, the leaves almost erased, my mother's name trapped inside two pieces of metal.
A crucifix, a David's star, a miniature gold hand, and my mother's name trapped in a cage of gold that used to be a ring.
These are the charms hanging in a golden chain around my father's neck.

Cracks

Photo By Emilie Trouillet, https://www.flickr.com/photos/ahbahbravo/

I am not Ofelia, eyes fixed on the ceiling,
a bunch of wild flowers in the bath tube.

I am not a suicidal blonde,

sleeping a barbituric dream.
 

I am not the princes in the marble tower,

I am not the object of desire.

I know I am not a damsel in distress
                                                         and I know
that distresses you because I can see.

I can see the stains on your blue suit,
the worn mask of charm
the cracks in your leather boots,
the black line of dirth and sweet around your neck.