Our Lady of Sorrows

Why my mother chopped off her hair,
followed me to the school bus stop
that morning in second grade,
I don't know. Or why

she bent down sobbing
don't let go of my hand.
How long did we stand by the 7-11?
Other kids hushed, watching.

When the bus clunked to a stop
I climbed on first, grabbed a seat in back,
my mother outside, hands curled
on my window, her face a blur

as the bus jerked away.
The kid beside me punched my arm.
Who was that man with you
crying so hard?

I said I didn't know.
Three times I swore, I don't know him.

– Michael Mack