Prescot and Main

A deeply dark and personal poem about my terrifying past life as a victim in every way.

Prescot and Main
by Keaton Foster



Prescot
and Main—
intersecting,
cutting through,
dividing up,
breaking in two.

One side I lived.
The other,
I died.

Back home,
back then,
I was just a kid.

There was a man,
a friendly neighbor
across the way.
His name—
matters not.

His relation?
All but speculation.
His inclination?
Young boys.

He was not gay,
just sadistic.
Not straight,
but bent—
damn near broken.

A monster
in human form.

I knew him,
not because I wished,
but because
I was forced.

A hell of a thing—
to be forced.

Into anything.
Any situation.
Any reclamation.

My mother and he,
best of friends,
so it seemed.

My sisters and she,
doting fools,
playing along
divine said rules.

He was—
and dare I say,
still is—
a man of God.

The preacher.
The pastor.
A child rapist.

But for some reason,
some unknown season,
I was his only poison.

There were no others.
Just me.
Just I.

I would be sent,
made to go—
across the street,
beyond the divide.

Mother would say:
Go see him.
Do as he insists,
as you must.
Close your eyes.
Pray to your own God,
as you appease that devil.

You are my child,
but in the same guise,
you are a sin.

A mistake not meant.
I broke the rules of marriage,
the convictions of faith.

My cheating on your father—
you are the byproduct of sin.
And thus, a sin of existence.

I feel I must sacrifice you
in the name of redemption—
if need be disguised
as child molestation.

Further, she would add:
He can clean my stains
by devouring you as his.
I’ve never wanted you—
but at least someone does.

So I would go,
as told.

Across Prescot and Main.

To the basement
of the biggest house
in our hometown—

A mansion for one,
a prison just the same.

There he’d be—
a beast in waiting.
A man in the mood
for some serious raping.

A sick son of a bitch,
hell-bent on getting his.

I was his kind.
Young. Weak.

And all but paid for—
not with cash,
jewels, or gold,
but rather a barter,
a sick sort of
give
and
take.

I’d close my eyes,
scream inside,
and do what he wished.

It hurt more than pain.
It hurt more than words.
It made me numb
to everything human.

It went on for years—
until one day,
a few days shy
of my last days
as a child…

He was at church,
in the middle of a service.
The house was packed.

My mother sat in the front,
my sisters by her side.
I sat in the back,
in the furthest corner
I could be shoved.

Everyone shouted Amen!
as he ended each line.

They believed his
hypocritical lecturing.

Of course—
not I.

He went on and on
until his face turned red,
until his brow poured wet.

And then—just as simple
as it all seems—
he dropped dead.

His eyes rolled back,
his body went limp.
He fell flat
on his face.

Everyone began to scream—
my mother, my sisters
cried out loud.

Of course—
not I.

I whispered to myself,
as I stepped from the corner
in which I was meant:

Amen.





Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2019