The Struggle

I saw her struggle after him,

rip his shirt

and stumble to the floor,

grab his head

and pull his hair before he struggled free

and bolted for the door.

“Jesus help us!” Momma cried.

Beside the door now open wide,

her face in hands,

like someone really close

had died,

she slowly moved to close the door

to keep the swirling snow outside.

“Jesus help us,” Momma cried,

while struggling hard

to stop the tears,

to stem the tide,

as if her palms could stop

a rising sea,

she slumped against the wall

and listened to the wind outside,

no longer free, recounting years

of silent fears and tears,

alone with children in the house.

“Jesus help us, Jesus help us,”

Momma cried.

Winter storm, the pantry lean,

no heat inside,

she sold her soul for kerosene

and an unpaid twenty dollars

on the side.

I heard the starter crank his truck

and start its muffled engine

in the snow outside.

“Jesus help us. Jesus help us,”

Momma softly cried.