Psalm for her migraines

Sunlight sears our driveway,
robins sever worms on the lawn,
the parchment skins of onions curl.
On the couch in late afternoon,
nothing moves without her.
No light planes fly overhead.
She rests on the red flesh
of a hot water bottle,
feet point to ceiling:
dog playing dead.

Look at her arm
draped over her grey eyes,
hand flung down,
a map rivers blue
to the moons of her nails.

These are the afternoons
that hang from the cross in the family room.

Holy Mary, rescue my mother
from worry,
from fear,
from us.

We are her problem,
she would be fine alone,
labeling the fruit jars,
perfecting drawers. We are her problem.
We keep her hair short.
We eat the shortcake.

Holy Mary, rescue my mother,
save her from the Andersons,
keep her from Sears,
help her rhododendrons bloom.

Published on Voice of Eve