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I am an English major at UK. I am a student as well as i parent. Writing has always been an important part of my life. Writing has been a survival tool that allowed me to express myself on paper when I could not express myself anywhere else. This group of poems is a narrative about my childhood and how I have coped as an adult. I am grateful to Rebecca Howell for helping me develop this skill beyond a personal outlet. I am very grateful to have the chance to share my experience with others. I hope that my writing will enlighten people to the tragedy that can happen to children and inspire anyone who has endured similar experiences.

Mentor:

Rebecca Howell

Lecturer, Creative Writing, Department of English

Director, Women Writers of Kentucky

Melanie is courageously after one of the hardest tasks for an emerging writer: she is falling in love with language while trying to conjure a childhood that was taken from her at a very young age. And she is indeed courageous in her pursuit: she has been working for years to unlock this story from its closet, while also learning to deliver it in a way that requires us to be as unflinching as she has been. When the language is at its best, these poems patiently tell her terror in the same way a hunter walks through the woods — quietly, one foot in front of the other, with an absolute and piercing awareness of every detail in the poem's surroundings. And, unlike most emerging writers who are working with the subject matter of personal suffering — she wants to know the whole story, the drama that unfolds, not only in her own childhood, but in her mother's childhood, in generations of marriage, and by the tongue of her own son.

Angry Banshee

Introduction

Still I sit here waiting for your response. My incited sides quiver and I try to keep silent but I am forced, to say that I am sorry to have brought this to your attention. You probably have better things to read. These awful words come, spewing from my mouth like a river of misery and doubt. A flowing sickness that I just can't shake. Too weak to confront my tormenter, too weak to press charges, and too weak to cut ties and just never see him again. I spend too much of my time just wishing he would go away.

Why I Didn't Learn to Swim Until

I was Twenty-one

You carry me on your shoulders, a short stocky man and a tiny girl-child.

Water kisses your ankles, touches your knees,

Caresses your thighs and finally, embraces your

chest.

You reach up and pull me down from my safe, dry

perch.

You set my feet upon an old wooden post sub

merged in the water, then step away. ,

Now the water reaches my chest too.

It pulses and pulls, trying to knock me over. Drag

me away.

At first I was amused by this game,

But no longer.

I thought I was safe with people all around, my family on the shore.

What could you do in this public place?

Sobs build in my chest.

The pressure forces my tears.

"Daddy, please, take me back."

You laugh, as if it's still just a game.

"Wrap your arms and legs around me," you say.