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As you can see, I am quite an accomplished artist. I'm practically a Van Gogh!

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I enjoy the line:
"...the face that I
no longer knew or loved..."

I think it tells of the power of pain. The speaker claims that he recalls a face that he had believed he no longer knew. However, his mind, when witnessing such a heinous act, reminds him that he'll never forget. He'll always know that face, even if he's tried to convince himself otherwise.

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I think anyone who enjoys a well-told story would find great value in this.
I think there's also value for an abuser who reads this, in that the poem is being told from a by-stander's perspective.  They're seeing the abuse.  So while the abuser might think what they're doing is a private concern, the actions are being witnessed.  Maybe it's time to seek help before it's too late.
For the abused, I think it tells them that people are watching, and while they might not always say so and might be afraid to, if you ask for help, they're going to give it.  Knowing you have an ally is incredibly valuable.

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I go back and forth on this topic, but I think I've settled on the speaker being a man, possibly around 50 years old and a neighbor.  I think he used to be friendly with the woman (not to say he isn't friendly with her now, but it's only a passing friendliness and no longer an actual friendship).  He might not have the education to prove it, but he is wise, possibly from living in the world and experiencing so many things.  He wants to intervene and tell her what she's doing is wrong, but he used to get whippings when he was younger and it's just a part of life.  I think he might also be afraid of her, seeing how vicious she can be to someone she loves and there's no telling how she would treat someone she wasn't required to care for.

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Growing up, my uncle lived next to a married couple named Bob and Patty.  They were a middle-aged couple and very nice.  It was quite a surprise, when the childless couple announced they were pregnant.  Soon, their son, Bobby, was born.  Being an only child and considered a blessing by Bob and Patty, Bobby was rarely told no about anything and it was obvious that this was mostly true in regards to food.  As a young child, he was quite portly, imagine a toddler-aged Michelin Man.  The one thing Bobby hated more than anything was having to take a bath.  However, this didn't deter his parents from making him take one.  It was always entertaining to EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, watch Bob and Patty chase a screaming and naked Bobby around their backyard to try to get him inside to take his bath.  The first two stanzas of this poem made me think of the nights we would stand at the fence and watch this battle of wills take place.

I hated wearing shoes when I was younger.  School was the worst thing in the world because I would have to wear shoes for hours at a time.  As soon as I got home, I would pull them off and go outside to play in the yard.  I grew up in the country on a half-acre of land and my bare feet touched every square inch of it.  I would run through the garden, run through the yard, step on thistle after thistle after thistle and never think that this could all be avoided if I would just put on shoes.  My favorite thing to do, though, was to challenge people to weird contests while barefoot.  I would convince my brother to take off his shoes and see who could walk up the rugged gravel driveway and across the blacktop to the mailbox and back first.  I always won.  My feet had become accustomed to walking across the rocks.  Others would struggle and gasp when they stepped on a sharp rock, but not me.   I wear shoes regularly now, but if I'm not at work, I'm wearing flip flops.  I've even shoveled snow while wearing them.

In 2012, my great-nephew was the victim of child abuse, and it killed him.  His name was Blake.  My nephew and Blake's mother had divorced and she was living with another man.  While Blake's mother was at work, this man was babysitting him.  Blake had an accident in his pants, and the boyfriend beat him nearly to death.  He panicked, spoke to Blake's mother and they devised a plan to make it seem like an accident.  They claimed Blake got hit by a car as he was peeing at the side of the road.  He died shortly after.  Whenever, I used to read things about child abuse or a child dying, it always seemed like something that happened to other people in other towns.  You never realize just how real life is, until it happens in your world.  Now when I read things about a child being abused, I no longer have the privilege of thinking it can never happen someone I love, because it has.  As horrible as it may sound, reading the poem made me realize how much hatred I have in my heart for Blake's mother and her boyfriend.  I don't let it consume me, but whenever I'm reminded of Blake, there's always a secondary thought of how much I hate those two people.

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When I think of this poem, I see the boy as a young, African-American child, probably around five years old.  The woman, I imagine as Calpurnia from the movie To Kill a Mockingbird.  The boy is precocious and the woman is no nonsense.  He crashes through the garden, stems break and petals and leave are strewn about.  The laundry hanging on the clothesline is also in shambles from his thrashing through it to escape.
As she beats him, I see in her hand a willow switch (growing up, we called them switches, I'm not sure if that term is universal).  It swings through the air rapidly, whistling as it does.  It smacks against his bare bottom, leaving marks immediately.  Her heft and pendulous breasts swing and jiggle as she exerts the force needed to (in her mind) properly punish him.  His screams are high-pitched and deafening.  The entire neighborhood seems silent except for the whistling of her switch and the screaming of a child yearning to escape.
He lays on the bed in a barren room.  The wood floors appear to be splintering and the walls yellowed and the wallpaper peeling.  The bed shakes gently as he sobs.
The woman leans against a tall tree, sweat pouring down her face and her breath seeming to only come in small gasps.  In her eyes you can see that she feels victorious, even as she stands there, struggling to stand and breathe.  A slight smile crosses her lips as she feels satisfied that she's beaten down the darkness within her.   And then the realization of her actions comes to the surface, the smile fades and all she's left with is her pain and her heavy sorrow.

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-Old woman/boy
-Her goodness/his wrongs
-Gripped in bony vise/struggle to wrench free
-In the stanza where she is striking and striking him and then it mentions tears and rainy weather, I feel there is a juxtaposition there between the hardness of the word strikes and the softness of words like tears and rainy weather invoke in the reader.
-I also find contrast between the ugliness of the woman's nature and the beauty is grows in her garden, almost as a mask to hide what she is.
-I find that, although not mentioned, the boy will gain strength through this ordeal, while the woman is obviously weakened by this.
-Also, reading the first two stanzas, I kind of thought the poem would be light-hearted.  A boy in trouble and running from the "whoopin'" he was sure to get.  Nothing serious, maybe a bit comical.  However, the tone of the poem quickly and without warning turned very dark and somber.

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This poem does not have a rhyme scheme. It's stanzas are presented in a quatrain fashion. While the poem, I would say, is free verse, I think that it is only barely such. While there's not a consistent meter throughout, I find that it reads from the page quite nicely. It has a certain beat to it that I find pleasing.

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In the first stanza, there is talk of the woman's "goodness" and in the last, she feels better about herself.  There's an echo of her feelings of superiority.

Also, there is an echo in the boy being trapped, first by the woman after he runs and then his head "gripped in bony vise".

Lastly, she beats the boy with the stick until it breaks and in the last stanza, she leans against a tree. She's echoing a dependence on trees to do the work she can't (or won't) do herself. In this case, hitting the boy with her hand and later, being able to stand on her own.

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-Woman/Way/Whipping/Wrongs
-goodneSS/wrongS
-crasheS/earS
-pleadS/zinniaS
-pursueS/cornerS
-StrikeS/StrikeS
-heaD/grippeD
-Free/Fear
-worSe/blowS
-lOVEd/OVEr
-No/kNew
-Longer/Loved
exhaustED/purgED

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Zinnia - a flower in the daisy family that is native to North America.  I had heard the term before, but was not sure what one looked like.

Purged - rid (someone) of an unwanted feeling, memory, or condition, typically giving a sense of cathartic release

*NOTE: I was unable to find an underline function. I put the words defined above in bold in the copy of the poem.

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The old woman across the way
is whipping the boy again
and shouting to the neighborhood
her goodness and his wrongs.

Wildly he crashes through elephant ears,
pleads in dusty zinnias,
while she in spite of crippling fat
pursues and corners him.

She strikes and strikes the shrilly circling
boy till the stick breaks
in her hand.  His tears are rainy weather
to woundlike memories:

My head gripped in bony vise
of knees, the writhing struggle
to wrench free, the blows, the fear
worse than blows that hateful

Words could bring, the face that I
no longer knew or loved . . .
Well, it is over now, it is over,
and the boy sobs in his room,

And the woman leans muttering against
a tree, exhausted, purged—
avenged in part for lifelong hidings
she has had to bear.