For Sara

My enemies have always been Sarahs
They are following me
haunting me through life
Baning me with their name.
At seven she was
the prig who unctioned me
told teacher on me
laid bare my secret
At twelve she was
the ugly, weird object
of my derision
I kicked her hooded head
on long bored bus rides
Of course, those days
the stigma wasn’t set.
I hadn’t realized that Saras –
with or without the sneaky, silent H –
were my nemesis
their evil didn’t signify just yet.
And so adolescence and its
high-low shame had something
to teach me of that
princess name.
That royal Sara of my lover’s covet
whose perfume I was taught to wear
whose hair
was straighter than mine
Taught me to hate
in spite of virtue,
to despise my betters.
I was the exploited Hagar
dark and bitter
the more faithful, and second-loved.
And moving on through closets of men
I saw Sarah pursuing
each of them.
Enchanting, stealing
harrowing them.
Sara mocked me
and pilfered my joy
Sarah - accented, busty
talented, smart
well-traveled, well-versed
well-endowed -
sent me into hiding,
sealed my Ishmaelic curse
to roam the land unloved, wild
the rejected mother,
wasted child.
To all my Abrahams,
I still can’t forgive your precious Saras.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007