Coming Out of the grave:(part two

At first, I thought
it must be selfish.
as the punch rippled through
mama’s three hundred pound body
with early morning bacon staggered-air
At first hit, the jabs to the chest didn’t seem to phase
but what, hum, stunned manifest

A brother, A sister
A family falling apart
He’d hit stone.
I know mama’s gotta left-hook
like a drunken man.

Even when the world sitting flat on their faces
they fought.

They put all that hatred in the world in their fist and
fought, until blue and red lights arrived.

And even then, nothing could stop him.
I locked the door but he’d kicked the door in.

I stood cold, peeping through the cubbyhole.
The high-tide, rise, and fall.

A thousand uncounted screams
falling down into the rage of summer.

Lost and found
delayed and arriving

Sinking afar
the fun of summer.

The children who dream
who grow up fast,

The mamas’ who fight for their very lives
for their unwanted babies.

Social workers who report.

Churches renamed post-wards
bringing out the dead.

Hospitals and nurses
who take out bruised-hooks
replace pains with pills.

What heals a family?

A surge of resilence
Throw out all the lies
put out the secrets
in the street.

Nothing to hide.
Come home
little children/ come home~your kindness sister Krissy Mosley

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Published by: Visionariekind

Krissy Mosley is a story-teller. Recalling stories to build bridges of peace. A folklorist to bring sounds of joy and healing vibrations. Krissy Marie is a writer /feminist, mother advocating for change surrounding women’s rights and women's’ issues.

Categories Poetry3 Comments

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