His fists to her were love,
bouquet’d bruises in velvet glove.
Her tears like salted diamonds fell
shaped from pain she’d never tell...

her children, not of hope but fear
their ransom all that held her here,
though if she ever could she would
renege her tortured motherhood.

She pictured home as was before
unbent, unbroke behind her door.
The hurt, she fashioned into care

that none but her should have to bear.