dirty old men

“Come here and let me fix your belt,” said the old man stranger.
The very young boy was a first time visitor to that house.
And I obeyed the adult authority figure,
And moved not a muscle as he touched my genitals.

I was shaken and confused.
Later I told my mother. She only said
“Don’t go back there ever again.”
Now I’m an old man and I can still feel his hand on me.

I was maybe six years old. I know the precise details.
The house was in Waltham at the foot of the hill
Not far from the entrance to Brandeis.
I was taken there with my friend Nicky Twigg.

You see how a few seconds can last a lifetime?
It was not until I was in my forties that it dawned on me
Why I have a ticklish spasm in my abdomen
When anyone reaches towards my waist.

That was not the end of it, not at all,
But it was the end of talking about it.
It was worse when I was twelve
At the doctor getting a physical exam.

That lasted it seemed forever.
I just about stopped breathing.
My mother had taken me there and I wondered
“Has she asked him to determine my maturity?”

After he let me go and I emerged back to the waiting room
Speechless, almost stumbling, paler than pale,
My mother asked, “What happened?”
I said nothing. That was Dr. Sylvester.

His office was across the street from the Congregational church.
I don’t remember ever going back there again.
I can tell you I much prefer women doctors.
Who knows how many others besides me he violated?

I was barely twenty when I married a young woman
Who didn’t remember her childhood and didn’t want to remember,
Whose life was controlled by acute phobias and fears
That couldn’t be acknowledged or talked about.

I was past forty when I married a woman whose stepfather had molested her,
Making a connection through a related shared experience,
Realizing that all the women in my life who have touched my heart
Have themselves been affected in some way like this.

But what is this connection? It is some kind of intuition I have.
I sense the childhood loss of innocence and trust not unlike mine.
It has put me in touch with my feminine side which is a blessing,
But it doesn’t make a relationship work.

On the contrary, it makes for a challenge.
At least I know what doesn’t work.
That’s a start, but it’s not even half way there.
What are the lessons here?

If you can’t remember or can’t or won’t talk about it,
That’s called denial.
It screams out in the silence.
That was my first divorce.

If you talk about it only as a childhood victim unaware of the adult behavior
Where we attack the ones we love still reacting to the trauma,
That is no less impossible to make a marriage.
That was my second divorce.

And yet I am still seeking someone now in my sixties.
You might say I am a slow learner, repeating my mistakes.
I am a lifelong learner, that’s for sure, and I’ll keep trying.
It’s possible I’ll get one more chance.