Man a C ured

Her thumbs whitened
white pressure spots
against her fist,
a contrast to the hot red
polish of her anger
toward him.

Four curved ‘C’s
lined up in her palm
the compression
of her fingernails,
the only order
her balled fists offered
to hide the
C allous,
C old,
C ruel,
C haos of her frustration.

When she C hipped
a nail,
he was smart enough
to run.

Mittens On a String

Cold winter winds
struck my forehead
sending me backwards,
mittens covering
what they could.

I learned a toe-heal
crunching loud boot step
that tested the path
I could not see,
until insecurity won
and I had to face the bitterness.

Feet forward now
I am walking
with my eyes open
as far as they go
without making myself
look like a character
in a bad B-movie
reacting to a ghostly
apparition.

Yet, I stumble again
walking where I shouldn’t go,
my mouth
leading me down
a bitter path
of pain
that cut my cord
to Momma.

My mittens
hold no solace.