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.
