the mother
in a creaky wooden chair
slowly rocking
the sound like a closing crypt
knees to her chest
arms encircling her legs
gazing out the window at nothing
the baby
across the room in an old crib
uttering piercing cries
the mother
turns her eyes to the child
she makes no move to comfort
this infant she does not want
a fleshly reminder of
the great violation
and the child's racket, nothing
compared to the mother's silent screams
the mother
grips the chair arms
white knuckles
her fingernails leaving divots
she begins to softly sing
melancholy lullabies
haunting isolation songs
as tears fall
the baby quiets and calms
as if it knows
these morose melodies are the only love
the mother will ever show



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