Poetry- Widow

The last words that my mother told the woman who ended ip raising me were prompted by one simple question,

What do I tell your daughter if she asks where you are?

To which my mother responded, “one, to breathe, and three, to remember that I am always looking down at her from heaven. But say it twice? Do you hear me? One, two, breathe. And three, remember, that I am always looking down at you from heaven”

You see I grew up in a pretty stressful fucking household but then again who didnt

Maybe it wasn’t the household itself it very well could have been my ill anger management

I can admit I have punched through my fair share of windows

I have squeezed through probably cabinets of glass

As cliche as it sounds, shattering shit with my own two hands has a way of making my reality seem a little less sharp

My brothers tell me I need salvation’Three bloody-

I mean Hail Mary’s to cleanse me of my sins

“Blessed Mary mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of death amen”

I’ve been on my knees at the foot of the pew and my bed but that doesn’t seem to get rid of the glass that I kneel in

And I can’t help but throw shit when I’m angry,

I can’t help but drown my sorrows with pleasurable sins

My father only curses at me when he’s piss drunk

And Ironically with every curse he brings another broken promise

He tup toes through my frustration but still always wakes it Monday through Thursday, and then dances on broken glass of his own Friday and Saturday nights

He sweeps up out mess before Sunday mass

Pretends his feet aren’t cut bloody while he kneels with his cross in both hands

He sticks his tongue out for the body of Jesus and sips the blood from his veins

But he would never admit that he silently wishes he could drain the whole chalice to take the hangover away

And as I watch him hold the holy grail with an iron grip

There is no mistaking that I am just like him

I am the temptation ridden fruit on the ground of Eden

Directly beneath his Good and Evil Apple Tree

His grip probably shatters glass into his hands just like mine does

He most likely did it first

Taught me to reach for the fermented grape vine you see, we share a similar blood thirst

But the sin stained windows are far too thick to cave from our blows

The wood has bore far too much weight over the years to know better than to crack

The church is the only place where our rage can not tear down everyone around us when we snap

Because their hymns will transcend our ancestors voices

Reminding us of the strength in our bones

That we must break, but stand firm in our faith and be courageous and be strong

And the man who’s feet are cut bloody with glass, hears the voice of his widow come back, as an angel reminds us

One, two breathe, and three, remember, that she is looking down at us from heaven

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