the third one by Wenda Nairn
the third one
my sister wasn’t easy to live with
or so my mother said
excusing my father’s wandering hands
his leather belt his rage and herself I suppose
chiding me to accept my sister’s third husband
not the first one
the one who left her
with one baby in her lap
another in her belly
not the second one
the one who crushed her toes
then passed out against the door
to stop her from crawling away
but the third one
the one who helped to raise the boys
framed and hung her paintings
worked a steady job in a good trade
the third one
the one who drank eight beers for breakfast
shot ducks every year on her birthday
passed out in the tv room most nights
the third one
the one who shared her love of Lightfoot
took her to a concert now and then
didn’t scrimp on her funeral
the one who was kind to her mother
