My mother’s husband was a difficult man.
He made her carry him around on her back
up and down stairs, indoors and out, while he waved
his rolled-up newspaper angrily, barking loudly at us all.
Only the dogs understood him.
The noise in the house was deafening, and the air
drum tight. My mother spent her days running,
bent double under her red-faced passenger
while we children fended for ourselves.
One dreadful day, a pair of silver spurs arrived.
Sometimes he’d fall asleep still hooked on, and she’d freeze
in her half-stand, half-crouch, afraid to wake him.
When we’d ask her Why did you marry that awful man?
She’d only say You should have seen the others.