Night Blooming Jasmine, a poem
After dark, anything could happen – each
moment was disconnected from the last.
There was no logical progression to our lives:
most events had the dramatic essence of a car
accident. One evening, my mother decided
to sneak out my bedroom window when my
stepfather cut her off. He was drunk himself,
but for some reason decided she shouldn’t have
more Scotch. I remember her butt, in white
nylon undies, decorating the center of my open
window. I both fretted and hoped that she might
fall and hurt herself. Another night, my stepfather
decided it was time to throw all the pillows away,
including mine, because to him they smelled like
“horse piss.” My mother followed, protesting
loudly, wrestling him for the pillows. She lost:
the pillows went into the garbage cart. This
happened in our front yard, on a warm night scented
with night-blooming jasmine. I watched the two
drunken grown-ups, distancing myself from the scene.
I watched it like a T.V. show or a movie. When
I try to tell people about these things now, I can’t
keep a straight face. The laughter chokes me,
renders me unable to speak. I am silenced.
They’re both long dead now… but I’m still here.
Kimberly Townsend Palmer 