Four days after Mother's Day,
       

her husband enters the house, & again, her body shakes,
first her stomach, quivering in its acid,
then her back & shoulders tightening,
curling her, not into a ball,
but into a hunchback, a grotesque formed
by fear, for he is here—

he who threatened over & over to leave her,
even on Mother's Day as she lay in bed,
nausea festering in her throat like streptococcus,
gagging her, driving her under sheet & quilt,
where she prayed like King David, Do not be far
from me, far trouble is near,

& begged for her bones to stop burning.
He loomed over her, not to give her
flowers & offer his deepest apology,
but to hand her a card that read, What a gift you are,
then warning, again, If you won't let me
be friends with her,

I'm leaving you.
Today, she hovers over pots of sauce & pasta,
water in one, trembling like her hands,
then boiling over before her eyes,
scalding the stove top's ceramic skin,
ominous aura

of sizzle & smoke blinding
her every breath. I love you, he said
to his daughter, home from college that terrible May day
when he did what he promised & left—then came back.
I wish you loved my mom, she'd countered
(wanting to untie

the knot of his manipulation,
expose the divided heart at the center
of his universe), daughter who now sits at the table
while marinara splatters
democratically—
here, here, & here.

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Copyright © 2018 Julie L. Moore All rights reserved
from Full Worm Moon
Cascade Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission