Baby Bone

If my sons wanted to return

to their mother, there is no longer a place

 

for me to keep them warm, sheltered.  No

womb to shield their tiny bodies

 

from the callous, calculated criminal

world that I should have considered

 

its cruelty before bringing such beautiful

beings into being.  I grieve for my sons.  Their mother

 

castrated because healers are no longer

healers. Butchers. The healing arts conduct

 

Capitalist business for all possible profits

to please CEO’s and personal expense

 

accounts.  Boys, your mother was aching,

sick and poor which lead to profound

 

pain of being dissected, disembodied, disavowed,

decentered.  Her pocketbook kept her

 

marginalized.  She sought help

assuming the Hippocratic Oath

 

didn’t make of those who take it

hypocrites.  She was sorely mistaken, by-effect

 

became systematically sterilized by the privileged

order of prefixed names.  They told her

 

it needed done: she would have a better life

if she sacrificed her sacred womb.  Now, children,

 

all she does is mourn the loss of your first home.

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