at the end of her rope (Matthew 15:21-28)

she forces open her
                eyes,
   shaking the cobwebs
   from her thoughts,
      wondering how
      does three hours
         pass so quickly,
      and give so little
             rest to a
             weary soul?

once again (almost as
         ritualistically
         as the prayers
         which are never
             answered),
   she cradles her daughter,
      pouring the waters
            over her from
            head to toe,
        hoping they might
        chill the fiendish
              fires deep
           inside her;
   she picks up the
      spoon smacked out
         of her hand,
      dipping it into the
               bowl,
         trying to bring
         a few drops of
             strength
             to the cracked
                    lips;
   she listens, as the
      curses spew out
         of that broken
                heart,
        answering (as
            she always will),
   'i love you,
        you are my heart,
             you are my joy.'

laying the exhausted
      child in her bed,
   she steps outside
            for a quick
            breath of hope,
         and at the sight
               of the one
               the neighbors
               had been
         talking about, she
      dropped to her
                knees
             whispering,
   'help me . . .

(c) 2014  Thom M. Shuman