waist line

She’s twenty four, but parents, works, and attends evening school.
She’s forty seven, but keeps her home a bastion for her daughter and grandson.

She’s twenty four, and she ties off her arm with a leather belt.
She’s forty seven, and she takes the boy for wagon rides down the street.

She’s twenty four, and she sits in her bedroom shooting heroin.
She’s forty seven, and she takes the boy to daycare.

She’s twenty four, and blood is seeping through her shirt, at her elbow.
She’s forty seven, and she sees the blood and calls the police.

She’s going out, she says.
She’s hurting herself, she says.
There’s nothing we can do, the police say.

She’s bumping into the car in front of her.
She’s looking around her daughter’s room.

She’s losing control, heading into oncoming traffic.
She’s picking up a worn-out leather belt.

She’s plowing into another car.
She’s looking at her grandson.

She’s dead on impact.

He’s two, but he commands his monster truck with omnipotence.
He’s two, and he wields a baseball bat like a would-be major-leaguer.
He’s two, and he digs through his sandbox like an archaeologist.
He’s two, and he skip-jumps to the music.
He’s two, and his mother is dead.

She’s looking at her grandson.
She’s holding the belt.

pause

She’s looking at the belt.
She’s holding her grandson.