Striking Sonnet 2

To hit, to scream, to throw, to curse, to loathe.
As in dying, there is no turning back.
The sting of the slap lingers, the tears salt
the air, the heart speeds, leads to resentment.
My father used to belt, smack, chase, throw plates
say “papatayin kita”, “I’ll kill you”
for things like breaking a glass or saying
damn or making out with “dat boy Jerome”.
I hated him for this, prayed that God would
take him away. Now his fires still rage
through my veins, in my mind, sometimes my hands,
smoking my senses. I strike as reflex.
I want to stop this hitting tradition
before my anger burns through memory.

Striking Sonnet 1

To hit or not to; is there a question?
When she scratches her baby brother’s skull
with her sharpest nail while I breastfeed him?
Spits in my face when I give her a time-out?
Smacks my cheek in the backseat of the car?
Bites my arm at the end of music class?
Throws a magnet at me when I say “Please,
be gentle. Pulling his arm is not nice.”
Don’t know how else to bear this insolence.
A lightning pulse commands my arms to strike:
I drag her off the baby to her room.
I smack her in the face and say, “Don’t hit.”
Then my quake dies down. In the aftermath,
wails, quivering words: “No! You no hitting.”