sad-eyed she says he needs her, but she can’t
stand him. he’s a habit she’s had forty
years now: how’s she supposed to quit him now;
she mourns her wasted youth, though praises god
over the seven fine children they raised
together—though one is dead and a daughter
is in prison for life—she wonders aloud
to that same god where everything went wrong,
but thanks him for pulling them all through
the hard times, when life got really tough; she
can’t recall when it was good times and apple
pie, but she swears up yonder . . . in heaven
with her lord and all the angels and the saints
gathered ‘round the throne—it’ll all be good.

dmpitchford