Crescent Shaped Dents in the Palms of My Hands

By Bonnie Markowski

christmas morning, 1968

1.

Irish coffee at dinner.
The aroma of roasted beans
can’t mask

that smell
that smell

whiskey

sliver moon harasses me back
to that night, so cold—
our old station-wagon
upside down in a crik
wheels clawing at the sky—

she said,
2:00 am on the other end
of our line—

she said,
probably a heart attack—

2.

my mother presses the rosary into my hand—
I clutch them to my flowered nightgown
mouth the recitation—

the police cruiser slides on the dark,
icy black roads of Dushore—

Mother silence scares me—
the 25-mile ride

and crescent shaped dents
in the palm of my hands—

3.

I don’t need to see
the blood-shot eyes—
the stench you enough

familiar misery drops
in the creases around
my mother’s eyes—

she pivots like a soldier in retreat,
the door slams closed behind us—
click, catches in my brain

How many trips.
How many times.

I shrug, she sighs, we don’t pray.

She pushes me ahead.

---

BONNIE MARKOWSKI is a poet and educator living in Northeastern Pennsylvania. She is an MFA Poetry candidate at the Rainier Writer’s Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University. Her  poetry has appeared in Sonic Boom Journal, PA Bards Eastern Poetry Review 2021, and River and South Review.

This poem originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 21. 

Photo by Chelsea shapouri