Maryelizabeth Christine
When Pushed

A mother's back bends like the stick she beats her child with,
the shoes, the wooden spoon,
anything that makes it to her hands.

The moon arcs like a smile as it falls,
drunken trees thirsty from the drought bow
like little toes during storms.

Her wrist twists when her husband's home,
knees kneel to give pleasure, plead and pray.
The corner of the table is missed,

there are waves of milk on the kitchen floor.