A woman scurries mouse-like
From corner to corner
Avoiding the glass and the stalking spirits
Sifting through refuse
Sneaking a worried glance,
She hunches over.
Matted hair, smudged cheeks
Dulled eyes and tattered soul
Shoes with toes poking through
A moth-eaten scarf
Hands cracking in the dry, winter air
Opening a moaning door
Sliding over a bloodstained carpet
Careful not to wake the baby
Sleeping silently, for once,
Just below the plastic window pane.
In the bathroom with the soap-scummy shower
Stripping off the world-worn shoes
And the torn sweater
The film on the mirror
Barely reflected the bruises
And the tired, weary eyes
That reminded of the half-corpse
Collapsed across town
In the cockroach-ridden filth of
Moe's Pub
She huddled in the shower,
Huddled in the corner while the hot,
Steaming stream seared through,
Cauterizing her wounds
Kneeling under the curtain of vapor
Praying feverishly,
Fearing that the door would open,
And slam,
And the baby would awaken
And start to cry.