Author’s Note: This poem was inspired by a short play known as Nine (originally written by Jane Shepard), which was directed by individuals in our school’s Drama 30 class. As what was done as a preface to the performance, I will also provide context for my inspiration. By discussing with the directors of this Class Act, Nine follows the story of two women who have been kidnapped by human traffickers and endure physical, sexual, and emotional abuse. They are locked in a room, where they begin to figure out their hopes, or “tells”, and survive with the strength and companionship of each other.
Through this performance, the ideas of doing the best today, as tomorrow is no guarantee, creating a grim reality by being in denial of their circumstances (through the phrase, “a stitch in time”, suggesting their experience is temporary), and the theme of gambled women with fates based on the power of chance are explored extensively. As a result, it creates a face to innocent individuals who are caught in the sex trade, or anyone who experiences kidnapping, such as the kidnapping scams in Toronto at this moment.
I would like to thank the cast of Nine (C.A, Y.D, A.M, A.W) for giving me feedback on this piece and providing insight on the themes, idioms, and insights on this performance. More pieces from me can be found here.
Without further ado, here is the poem, inspired by Nine.
Rushed breaths,
hands held,
pursed lips,
waiting for the shadow
that walks through that door.
Show me your hands,
wiggle and bend.
Just enough to get through this night.
Show me your face,
both beautiful and broken,
bruised by the touch of the torturer.
A stitch in time
saves nine,
for this little light
is going to shine.
Friendly banter
of personal tells
echo in the chamber
of the forgotten.
Laboured breaths,
shaking hands,
bruised lips,
afraid of the darkness
behind that door.
The desire for companionship
defeats the desire to surrender.
Tender touch and warm embrace
with spasms of pain and gritted teeth.
Walls of grey stay silent,
watching on with no intervention.
Moonbeams shine through the rusted grates,
acting as the lifeline.
For times of darkness and times of strife,
hope becomes the closest ally.
Hope is the tether of reality
amidst the onslaught of injury,
the saving grace
hidden behind impenetrable walls,
the essence of peace,
taken away
with each fleeting breath.
Hope is life or death,
for losing hope means losing everything.
Empty breaths,
bound hands,
bloodied lips,
a light is snuffed out
by the hands of the captor.
But the afterimages
of that powerful light
can never be stolen
from its rightful owner.
For the experiences,
the wisdoms,
the spirit of the flame
can never be taken
by the hands of the captor.
Unspoken words
held in the hearts
between the stitches of time.
For something that was never uttered,
never whispered,
never shared,
can never have existed.
Beyond the construct of death,
resilience continues on,
for this little light
continues to shine,
even when
there is no one there
to admire
its lost beauty.
