Imaginary dense clouds of thunder and lightning roll like bellowing waves on an angry sea above my head. Fire and brimstone crackle from my think Urdu nose. Transformed into Bruce Banner’s Hulk, my blood vessels bulge green, battling to churn the quarts of blood that traverse this thick Amazonian body. My fists clench, thirsting for the culprits neck. My mind and spirit contending between war and peace… my flesh is out for blood. It yearns for vengeance, more than Iran, more than Israel!
I am riled by The Book Thief!
This is my worse fear coming through. For many months, years, I have hovered like a nervous mother; checking, rechecking, ensuring all were in their place. Lined up like tiny soldiers, a few marred only by the raindrops from the leaky roof. Bruised pages and chomped on edges by the stealthy termites that slither through pages like Samurai Ninjas, evasive. Barack, Castro and Mandela, stood side by side almost at odds and not. Ivan Illich was shored up between Billy Graham and another saintly text; but my heart yearned for the one that was gone.
Someone stole one of my babies. That which I cherish and put away from the prying eyes and desperately wicked hearts of females who covet bound words which are not their own.
The New York Times Number 1 best seller, ‘Act like a Lady, Think like a Man‘ was pilfered from my collection.
I am out for blood.
My flesh argues with my spirit to borrow prophetic declarations that will smite down to the fourth generation of the thief’s lineage. My spirit reminds me of the responsibility that comes with my gift and authority; but my mind quips, “I don’t care.”
My baby is gone.
Steve is gone.
The Book Thief…a Barbados schooled future Jamaican lawyer wench was busy ‘Thinking like a Man.’
More like thinking like a thief.
The Book Thief, my brother’s girlfriend, the only possible suspect. No one else, not family, not kin has ventured into this house. My mind flashes an image of her sitting cozily under the ackee tree with my grey baby, without a cover. This was many moons ago. Some mother I am, to not recognize one of her children. That explains my driving rage that day at her presence. I distrusted her on sight; rare for me.
But, she came with evil spirits that troubled my spirit; that tried to kill me in my sleep.
But, with God’s help I soon took care of that.
But, she left me a parting shot and whoa be unto her skin when it feels my rage upon it. That Book Thief!
I try to quell my anger, my rage. Drawing for biblical references of ‘vengeance is the Lord’s He will repay.’ I simmer.
The evidence, an empty sleeve. There was Steve Harvey, smiling at me with all his 32 white shinning teeth; but no book!
My baby was naked, not even a cover to hide his gray exterior.
Devastated, the theft occurred in my own home! Right under my nose!
There will be blood…
Copyright © 2015, Denise N. Fyffe
About the writer:
Poetess Denise N. Fyffe has worked in Information Technology positions for fifteen years. She is also a trained counselor and teacher. Meeting the challenges of the recession head on, she transitioned into being a successful freelance writer for many local and international clients.
She has published many books of including