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.
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Feel free to critique the poetry. I employ a sophisticated thick hide technology.