Sometimes so overwhelming that it goes silent,
It does not leave her completely,
But displays itself in her ﬂushed pink face.
It resurfaces gasping and sporadic,
Sometimes it will pull her down
To that dirty cracking ﬂoor,
And she will roll and wail,
Grasping at her tender sides as though the waves will burst her,
Climbing weakly into that worn kitchen chair,
Slouched, recovering in short contented breaths.
Then any moment, at the drop of an unexpected phrase,
It could start all over again.