Walls (published on Brittle Paper in 2014)

By Jen Thorpe

 

It was

The force of the wall

That propelled her face forward

And back into the foot

That kicked it.

 

The kicker danced

The dance of a victorious soldier.

For he was a warrior in a long standing campaign

Of dominance

And hate.

 

Behind the wall,

And hidden from view,

A young girl played on her swing set

Took selfies with her Ipad

Unaware of the violence beyond.

 

Her mother

Was not abused

Just disabused of the notion

That one day she would come home

To find dinner on the table.

 

Along the street

A more hopeful woman walked

Witnessed the scene

And called the police

To restore order.

 

The police arrived

With lights unflashing

This was not a crisis

This was the order

In the Mother City

 

Note from the author: I wrote this piece in response to witnessing intimate partner violence in the road outside of my house. It was interesting to me that because both the perpetrator and the victim were homeless and drunk at the time of the incident, the police disregarded protocol. They tried to get them to both sit in the same vehicle and didn’t want to assist her with opening a case because ‘she’d just go back to him’. I realised that those victims of domestic violence who are already marginalised by social class and economic conditions are further marginalised by the state in their response to these crimes. I think it reflects a more general disbelief in women who report violence against them by their intimate partners, and that this is something we need to dispel. It also reflects on the ability of so many people to be completely blind to the conditions of others, because they are safely behind their own walls.