His fists to her were love
bouquet’d bruises in a velvet glove,
her tears like salted diamonds fell
shaped from pain she’d never tell
Her children not of hope but fear
their ransom all that held her here,
though if she ever could she would
renege her fragile motherhood.
She imagined home where once it was
and though not true still called it so,
for that is what the broke heart does
It keeps the beat when it should slow.