On Becoming a Foster Parent
By October, the honeymoon was over. Our new foster daughter threw tantrums every five minutes the entire time she was awake for four straight weeks. There wasn’t one day that I didn’t want to give up. There wasn’t an hour that went by that I hadn’t shut myself in the closet to pray that I would be strong enough to help her. Being a foster parent was way more difficult than I had imagined.
I felt a cinquain was most appropriate for this month’s poem—five lines for the tenth month was representative of me having half the patience, half the sleep, and half the sanity available to be the ideal mother.
I was scared. What had I gotten myself into? Was I strong enough for the task?
I used the homonym which and witch to show my confusion. I used the repetition who, who to add spooky sound like an owl. I switched places with the toddler by using a simile to compare my tantrum with that of a ghost.
Which is the witch?
Who, who is the grown-up?
I tantrum and howl like a ghost.