The plain truth is that 

she lives in the pain,

the pain of living,

living as Joy,

being a mother,

being  torn

in the fighting 

to survive.

 

She is Joy,

the woman 

with the glint

in her eye 

and the love

that’s hard as 

leather and soft

as a bruise on skin.

 

And the person that 

is Joy is hidden in

the texture of poverty,

in the fracture of

alcohol’s parade,

in the working,

and the cooking,

in the living,

and the violence

that roars across

her stage, and she,

out of love, out of

dignity, holds it down,

as she will today,

and tomorrow as well.

 

She is Joy,

the woman 

with the tear

in her eye 

and the love,

yes the love,

that’s hard as a

fist and soft

as a caress on

a lonely cheek.

 

She cradles her loved ones

in her arms and soothes

them with the calm that

comes before all breaks

loose, that’s the truth 

hidden behind the tattered 

door to the house and to

her heart, that’s the way

her life has been in this 

place where Joy has no 

joy at all but for the hope

she keeps in the tin box

of her wishing soul.

 

She is Joy,

the woman 

with the sigh

in her cry

that none but

she can hear;

this is Joy

filled up with

pain unshared, 

filled up with the love

that’s hard as 

leather and soft

as a bruise on skin.

 

They found her body the

other day, foetal on the floor,

eyes wide open looking at the open door;

metal box ajar in her clutching hand,

and tears of blood stopped from

the wound that ran across

the stage of her despair.

 

She is Joy,

the woman 

with the love

in her eye 

and the tenderness

that’s hard as 

leather and soft

as a bruise on skin.

 

4/7/2019