by Mary Eileen Ball

I stir the dust beneath my chair
As I lumber by to remove a crowd of dirty dishes from the end table.
I see the spill that bloomed on the floor—chocolate milk, was it?
And the grimy shoeprint nearly dry.
Unpaid bills gather slapdash near the kitchen phone.
Did I say kitchen?
A mess of bread crumbs on a coffee-stained counter mocks me:
You must try harder.
But the inward mess is much worse than the outer.
Jealousies, unforgiveness, grief, rage,
A nest of snakes coiled upon each other,
Poisoning my thoughts.
Alone, I can't untangle them.
I lift one wearied hand toward heaven,
Tapping into a power not my own,
And breathe in deeply.

Mary Eileen Ball lives with her husband and young son in the Deep South.