this film is not being shown

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Eve Chilali

I feel a film
not washed off after all these showers
a filth, a bruise I don’t want anyone to see
a consciousness of being
not enough
smart pretty tough
not enough

What do you want, I don’t hit you, do I?
fists up, baby on the seat

Cowering tower not believing
in the bad the evil the lying side
hoping in the wash of good side I saw when we met
the better self you put forward
a hooked soul waiting to be let out
if someone could unlock the purgatory

I don’t care if my father died yesterday,
we’re havin’ a pahty . . .

the day he died you drank yourself to sleep
though you barely knew him
cycle begins again

Believing, believing
you’re not doing dope
didn’t say bad things about me
demanding wife
ball and chain
neck drop lagging up your high

“. . . it’s too bad she has to put up with him
at least he doesn’t hit her . . .”

The essence of the film
the icky lie
that you don’t hit me with words
shake fists
anger disintegrates
my ‘front’
inch inch take
the wall down

each morning before I leave
baby bag packed briefcase over shoulder
baby draped in my arms
out the door off to work
you tear at my self
façade I set to make it
through the days
anything to ruin my
to make damn sure
that icky film stays on

Eve Chilali is a poet and writer living in the Greater New York City area. This poem is part of a forthcoming collection, Some Other Perfect.

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