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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