My own Momma endured The Fist
for a time. For ten years she battled
before she finally said: “No more.”
The Fist used to come down on
her until the hot iron would drip
from her battered nose—
he wasn’t happy until he drew blood.
The Fist would pound until
gossamers of red appeared
in my own Momma’s eyes,
until her irises were encased
with swollen tissue that was
stained red, blue, and purple.
Sometimes he threw in a
broken ear drum, to boot.
The Fist smashed covertly.
When he thought
no one was around.
But, I saw the
evidence everywhere.
A door broken in half.
The lock to my room broken—
that is where she used to hide.
Broken glass in a box
in the garage.
Some time after my own Momma
said: “No more,”
she started to Heal.
You see, my own Momma
had been anointed with
Healing Hands, after she
defeated The Fist.
She used her Hands to
help adults and children
alike who had endured
the prison of The Fist.
My own Momma would go all over
to double wides so dilapidated
they were held together
by duck tape—
true story.
She used her Healing Hands
to help the damage
left behind by The Fist.
My own Momma fought to be free,
and in that freedom
Heal.
Rachel Meeker is from a small town in Missouri and has just recently-- at long last-- left the state. She has been writing for her whole life while actively participating in theatre and debate as well. She is just beginning her literary journey.
Mother's Lap by Sagarika Sen