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she sits locked in her broken prison of flesh
hands gesture with no word crossing her lips
her black maid is her voice having been
her right arm for years
On the rocking chair I share with her
the latest news of church and children
draped in blanket and silence she listens
I pray my presence fills the air
more than my words
with skin touching skin, young and old,
black and white, we pray together
for strength, peace, patience, comfort
in spoonfuls, grace sufficient for the day
leaving I sit in my car and cry
for life unfair as a robber
stealing her voice, but not her gentle spirit
on the freeway a sign shouts
LIFE IS HARSH! (your tequila shouldn’t be)
And I drive home drunk on it’s half-truth
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