Born broken to a

mother who pushed her  

into a world wordless

with grief, sure her

father that she feared,

had mixed a dose

of poison in a

drink that he bade

her give the mother

that she adored who

drank it to the

last and died in

anguish on the night

that good night became

goodbye for ever more,

she was splinted with

popsicle sticks and grew,

walked, ran, but never

up or away from

the sorrow, but always

toward the salt-caked

embrace of this woman

who was never free

of guilt or ghost

that took turns with

their haunting of her

heart and soul and

those of her baby,

who nursed at the

breast of Lot’s wife.

©Dana Hughes 3.4.25