This Mother’s Day

It’s Mother’s Day and a thousand children
have been separated/torn from the arms
and hands and hearts of their mothers
at the border of hell. Why not just
push little hands through the vagina
into the womb and tear those babies out?
Then, at least, the babies wouldn’t know.
Where are those babies? Where are those
mothers? They cannot be seen but only
heard in the shrieks of horror, in the
whimpers of abandonment, while hyenas
cackle and the devouring dragon roars.
Why not just spit them up, dragon? Why not
throw them back, dragon? Let their
broken bodies and broken spirits reach
for each other in the searing sands;
let them embrace for one last time
before the fires of the desert incinerate
them, never to be forgotten but to rise
up in the inferno of righteous rage —
a Phoenix — and scorch us all with
guilt and shame in the burning memory
of these mothers and children on this
Mother’s Day, this ever-so-sweet,
Hallmark day.

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