he left her with so little
a sad VW, rusty dishwasher, brokenness
He took Rose for a fool, a bad mother
She echoed in screams, overnight scribbling, bitter wine
Wrapping her toddlers up, she carried them forward. He stumbled on to the skinny secretary. That woman retired to rub her pregnant belly with slick lotion. She fed her golden, curly-haired dogs on luscious cerulean carpets and a stunningly carved rosewood dining table. The dribble that dropped from their crimson tongues and food scraps marred its swirling beauty–trouncing the lemon-scented oil.
“You bitch!” Rose said, “admonishing my babies and their sacred sun-drenched hair.”
“Washing hair in the tub is filthy,” the secretary answered.
“Like I said, you bitch,” Rose screamed.
Not her brains nor beauty kept this mother strong. Blessed anger did, along with crooning Judy Collins and a vision of three Graces.
They muscled up in salty waves–other sharks passed by–she was not the only enemy.