Her Last Bipolar Attack

I stood behind the screen door
watching her pace around the patio table
as she knocked down the chairs
one by one—chanting to herself
a mumble of words I didn’t understand.

It was mid Spring—tulips stiff
along the chain-link fence—fresh cut
grass soaked from the sprinkler’s waving hand.
The air played catch with the crickets’
buzz, bouncing it off the trees.

I kept on yelling, please Mom, come in,
but she proceeded to the gate, opening her
raid on the neighbor’s telephone wire
tugging at it with a scream, I crossed the line.
Amazed at her strength as if to pull down
the moon itself, she was determined
to break the line.

I ran out after calling for help, remembering
the reflection of my face in hers.
Cold drifted through me as she stared.
A stranger I had confronted, forgetting who I was
when she’d locked her eyes onto mine.

Lisa M. Cronkhite