My mother was the devil,
or so I used to think.
All the many times she scared me
it drove me to the brink.
She’d come in without warning,
though not a big surprise,
the devil would be looking
straight through her bloodshot eyes.
She always yelled and screamed
and often hit us, too.
There were times she had awakened me
While beating us with shoes.
My mother was the devil,
or so I used to feel.
Whenever she’d come near me
I would pray it wasn’t real.
As the youngest of her ten
I was the receiver of her worst.
That I often hoped and prayed
that I was born her first.
When she got home from the bar,
with the devil in her eyes,
I would often open windows
Hoping neighbors hear the cries.
My mother was the devil,
or so I used to think.
Now, that I am older
I sometimes have a drink.
I no longer dwell upon it,
the evils of the past,
I am grateful for how I’ve grown
because it didn’t last.
By watching her I learned,
how the bottle, it could be.
My mother, she had grown as well
and set the devil free.