Born-Again
She was born-again,
not from a bolt of lightning
changing the way she parts her hair,
but cold from years of abuse,
a canvas for fist-inspired,
purple-skin art.
All was different now,
no more yelling,
no more smothering
Budweiser, thick-tongue grunts, or
dodging ceramic Frisbees
with fresh cussed asparagus and peas.
Flashing lights, and
yellow tape strung
like a necklace of nightmares
had the neighborhood buzzing.
Her eyes were fixed
on something they couldn’t see,
his just closed.
by Pat Paulk
from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 3, September 2006
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