By AUSTIN CUNNINGHAM
"My story must be told,
Must remain in constant memory
So my daughters won't cry my tears,
Or follow my tortured legacy ...
Love ain't a tricky thing if it's coming
From a healthy place ...
Maybe I should have loved him a little less ...
Maybe I should have not believed he'd
Never hit me again;
All those maybes will not bring me back again."
That's a prose poem by a dying woman and I've taken liberties in compressing the words of a final victim of domestic violence -- repetitive, relentless, domestic violence, a war between the sexes. We're aware of its presence, going on behind those walls we walk by, drive by every day. Maybe we're tired of hearing about it, bored by it because of its propinquity (nearness). Behind expensive walls but mostly behind dirty, littered walls. It's as old as Genesis but as current as the next 15 minutes, a strong body beating on a weaker body with fists, furniture, whatever's handy. The reasons are multiple, no single pattern. A man (most often) with the self control of a child. In his mindless fury taking his revenge on adults like those others who may have abused him when he was weak, helpless and tiny.