She was born-again,
not from a bolt of lightning
changing the way she parts her hair,
but cold from years of abuse,
a canvas for fist-inspired,
purple-skin art.

All was different now,
no more yelling,
no more smothering
Budweiser, thick-tongue grunts, or
dodging ceramic Frisbees
with fresh cussed asparagus and peas.

Flashing lights, and
yellow tape strung
like a necklace of nightmares
had the neighborhood buzzing.
Her eyes were fixed
on something they couldn't see,
his just closed.