Mom Drank Whiskey – Judith Camann

Judith Camann

When Joe’s wife refused the torn
paperbag scrawled note to send
me back with cigarettes,
chips, eggs
a pint, I found
a shard rock in the empty
lot just the right size
fisted in my front pocket.

I ducked the first swing
the door creaking closed.

The second, she lost
balance, clenched fingers
extracting a handful of hair.

The third always from behind.
My hand
trapped in bare threads.
tiny fingers released
the cement chip
cold against my thigh.

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