Montego Wednesdays
hang, left out too long, like Spanish lard.
Midweek melts in a September sun.
She stares sideways, her own reflection
docked in the window and watches
wonders where her children had gone.
She responds to a psychiatrist's cryptic tongue
answers in cyclic fashion. Nothing ever changes.
She willingly sold herself in to slavery,
exchanged her precious sugar
for a homemade prison, to be the perfect victim.
Her sons had fled, learned intolerance of women.
Her husband turned her daughter to venom and
inflicted teenage angst, wishing to drive mother from the home.
Her inheritance a prison, his word whispered
in her ears years before, slaps her face with failure.
Another afternoon bleeds out the nose, empty of hope
waiting, another question. Nothing ever changes.