Strike me with your hand.
Reach out and slap my cheek.
Bloody my nose.  Kick me.
I shall be angry - furious.
Almost surely I will strike back.
But please show me physically your anger,
your resentment, your desire to hurt me
if only to demonstrate your inner turmoil,
seeking someone to retaliate against.
These things I ask - I insist.

But never - never let your voice trample
the new green growth of burgeoning hope
that eternally strives within me -
never tear the arbutus-tender blossoms
of my spirit, as young and eager now
in my chilling years as daffodil
dancing in the chilly air.

Use your voice only to whisper to me the ill
I have committed against your individuality.
To let me explain - or admit -
what thing I said that makes your words
strike like bitter, stinging sleet
leaving the verdancy of my spirit
crushed and wounded, aching
in numbed lack of comprehension.
Now, prostrated, I lie aching,
not knowing how to understand.
Understanding only that words are stronger,
more wounding, can as surely kill
as iron strong hands.

Barbara Ruth Sampson
Blairsville, GA