The Narrow Path

The smell of cigarettes and stench of whiskey
clung to her nostrils in a perennial pungent bouquet.
Even when teaching her grade school kids
and more so during her Sunday school class,
like it was God’s punishment on her nose
for nights that were blurred images of bars,
blended with the naked flesh of nameless lovers
met and spent in endless trails to motels.

Inside, sometimes the guilt and panic would devour her,
but she was cursed, her body addicted
to the constant, shameless journeys into inebriated ecstasy.
Perhaps it was why she felt no discomfort
over the times she stripped off her clothes
then lied down to let anyone, male or female,
do as they desired with her.

Part of her did cringe during the flashbacks
as she would relive the hazy recollections
from those nights of pure ravished pleasures
just pushing aside the depths she fell
because it was all a game with no winner.

One swig of Bourbon tonight
stung as it went down her throat,
it didn’t matter, just didn’t matter
was what she kept telling herself.

Somewhere within this same old voice,
a soft sounding siren of sympathy
told her it was all acceptable,
part of her walking that narrow path,
this odd journey of rebellion
against her mother’s ancestry.

So she refused to succumb to the black sorcery legacy
wouldn’t let herself join that dark, evil voyage
of incredibly intense wickedness.
Only the price of rebellion
meant to dwell by night
in the realm of lust and wine,
which all made it somehow tolerable
to her mind that was trapped
within a murky mental maze of misdeeds.