One cold January night
my mother skipped her pills
imagined ferocious eyes
tearing her apart.
Nothing I said could reach her
in her madness.
She swooped
and struck me
with her fists.
I grabbed my boots,
ran without my coat
on ice-slick sidewalks
past silent houses
past the closed supermarket
to the pay phone.
I called my father.
Snow had closed the racetrack.
When he arrived
he wrapped me in the blanket
once used to save a stray cat
and took me home.
Alice G. Waldert is a poet and short story writer. Her work has appeared in literary journals in print and online across the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. Recent works have appeared in Canthius Magazine, the Rockvale Review, and The Marbled Sigh. She is working on a complete collection of poetry about her experiences as a foster child and her biological parents. Alice holds an M.A. from Carleton University and an MFA in writing from Manhattanville University.