This poem is concerned with the flawed and often ugly humans beneath the myths we write.
The speaker undergoes the process of disillusionment that comes with age and experience, causing this rose tinted lens to become shattered after a traumatic childhood. The speaker’s understanding of the world is fractured, meaning he/she feels out of place, displaced and betrayed. The personification of “Trust” as a game of “cats cradle” links to this problematic, obscure concept that becomes confusing as one moves into adulthood.
Hope you enjoy reading this as much as we did!
My Heroes became Trouble:
I never learnt the most important things at school
like Gandhi was a Paedophile
the myth of the pull out rule
or that the grapevine can produce
syrup sweet berry juice
and soured blood
dripped into fractured glasses of scarlet wine
disguised synthesised nursery rhymes
I can still hear singing
ringing echoes of rich laughter
from the cave of my childhood.
I recall a familial fear of the dark
replaced by aching fears of being apart,
as little girls hold each-other so close they repeat the same heart beat
The monster under the bed was my father.
Except I didn’t know that then—
Trust was once loyal, a faithful friend
as we wound each other up.
The game was cats cradle, with hidden claws
but all my strings were intertwined
so I went to my mother, who gently brushed out
the tangles in my mind.
by Kitty Connor