The mother in me would remove your lungs by teaspoons over a number of months, watching your breath grow precious.
She would have you live long years, seeing those whom you have loved die in your eyes, waking you often to view reruns.
The woman who put her child to sleep brushing circles with her cheek on a tiny head of baby hair would hood you and beat you on bare feet with bouquets of barbed wire.
The sensible liberal who is carrying my purse, containing a card for the ACLU and a copy of the New Testament (NRSV), petitions nightly to God to deny you entrance to Hell, sentencing you to a lonely oblivion, conscious of your loss.
We dream of these and other gruesome punishments for you, often shocking the little girl in me who had her own nightmare offender, but we shush her protests. She is not a mother. The only thing that might make it any bit better is to never have been born— you or I—it hardly matters which.