Nevermore...

The killing field is draped in white.
Suction jar awaiting the fruit of your womb,
a little glass tomb. They say
the altitude is too high
so we’ll send you down,
down into the valley,
where you will not bleed unduly
from this extraction of life.
But you squeeze tears
behind tight shut lids,
and step down from the death trap,
alone. Your hospital gown drapes shut
behind you. This is a mistake,
and you leave to grieve
over a life that won’t end
on this day.
Far away months flow by,
and we gather to hear
a newborn’s cry…
because you left the killing field.

Copyright: 10 October 2005 S.M.S.