She lost the house in the snow;
She confined the three of them to motels for a year and a half;
She broke his tie with their son, and thereby his heart.
His only other blood family she killed,
And then she forced him into exile on Moron island.
A quarter century of pain clarifies like butter
As she celebrates.
For her there is nothing to forget.
Her sister in another country is content
To hold her once again at her mercy
The way she imprisoned her as a girl,
In the cell in which she never doubted she would put her back.
The trust fund payments start again,
Paid to the one he knew not to trust but trusted regardless.
They are nothing.
For those who are nothing they are everything.