My mother was a wild thing,
Like Medusa.
Her white mane of hair,
Billowing,
Seized by the sea.
A rearing horse beneath her,
The witness of fury.
And the bearded figure,
Still
Utterly transfixed.
As a child,
My mother had disposed of a tiger
And again she raised the gun,
My father’s service gun,
A bullet through my husband’s head.