I.
Any Catholic
can tell you
how a sly kick
is best to woo
the martyr. Dad,
you know it,
don’t you? Bronx lad
plucked by fate
to torture
my sad mother.
It’s the allure
of bruises, their
deep purple retinas,
soundless, calling us.
II.
You stopped calling us
whores last Easter—
the cause
still a mystery.
Roast lamb
and potatoes,
without “Damn
you, girls, go
straight to hell”
are delicious,
the soft smell
warming us,
conning us
until Christmas.
III.
Then, on Christmas
you showed up
friendly as
a pup.
Didn’t last
long, we just
get past
the first
beer and Pow!
Your “fires of hell”
break out
and you yell
until the cops
make you stop.
Jane Collins teaches creative writing at Pace University in Pleasantville, NY. Her poems have appeared in Puerto Del Sol, The Greensboro Review, Confrontation, River Oak Review, California Quarterly and other journals.