Typical
of my childhood
was the periodic "spankings"
I received on our bathroom floor.
The ritual was always the same.
The dread would begin
as a physical sensation
in the pit of my stomach,
while I took as much time
as possible
unbuckling my belt
and pulling my pants to my ankles.
I would then lie on my stomach,
head next to the toilet.
The linoleum was cool against my face,
which was soon constrasted
by the hot slashes
against my exposed behind.
When the blows came
I would start screaming
hysterically
and reaching back to shield myself.
I knew this only fueled my father's anger
and prolonged the punishment,
but I couldn't help myself.
In the beginning,
he could hold my wrists with one hand
and swing with the other,
but eventually
he starting tying my hands
behind my back
with heavy string.
This all ended abruptly
one night
when I broke the strings
at the height of the exercise.
From then on my punishment
became less ritualized
and more spontaneous.
Swift, impulsive
acts of violence
always caught me off guard
and apparently for him,
yielded more satisfactory results.
In any event . . .