She made my life a living hell
but oddly I somehow loved her.
 
She was like a noxious weed
that breaks through the cement
and keeps coming up
with belated “fuck yous”
to the weed killer.
 
She had her roots deep into my earth,
my wife, not my mother
(who hated her)
 
and her gin bottles were tied to
the car when I wed her
daughter
 
(which gave us a flat tire)
 
but she ploughed the fallow field
of my heart
 
(which is briefly bare again after her death,
the harvest)
 
even as i wiped her ass
and fed her blueberry muffins
when my wife was near exhaustion
 
and last night, I said the Rosary
in the room where I did those things
 
(in the room where she died)
 
and an angel appeared,
who rolled a big stone
of darkness
 
to reveal a mouth of light
 
and I fed her again,
for the last time
 
(in the moonshadow of the Dial,
near the spot her soul dropped dead at midnight)