The Tower and bridges were lit pink
in joy just a year ago.
Jubilation over abortion at will.
Now three hundred thousand have
Coronavirus number nineteen and
I need to pray
for them.
What shall I pray for those who
voted, “Yes, let’s invite death?”
Now he’s there, knocking on their doors,
and they do not see what they have done.
How can I tell them that
when they die, they’ll face a
God who hates the shedding of innocent blood?
How can I not tell them?
What should I pray for those who applauded,
but were duped by the fruit
of slick, sly promo that said destroying
someone else’s DNA was a “right?”
And for those who did not choose this,
who lost jobs and will still somehow
care for their parents, kids, neighbors,
and strangers? For them, I know how to pray.
Choice
Where?
Your dad was to meet your mom
in her dark and secret place,
but it was in a petri dish of agar
under searing light and
the care of a white-cloaked bandit.
A frigid face ice cubed you,
plunked you into sterile darkness
where you aged but had no birthday.
Shielded eyes brought you to light,
stripped your genes,
squirted you with the codes of a stranger,
then coddled you with incubation.
The news chortled
that you grew the cells
of the stranger.
But where are you?
Begun 4/28/14. Completed 4/10/19
Pink
Flops of a pink bow,
muddied by tire treads.
Cherry blossoms toss in
Capitol winds.
Ripe-bellied mothers
recline, knees spread.
Black-boned skeletons
in lab coats cavort,
spring, lamb-like from tented
crowning to tented crowning
speaking silky sounds,
and plunge scorpion
fingers into the bodies of
babes, sucking out
life.
So we light our proud
tall tower
pink
to celebrate
death.
February 16, 2019
On January 23, 2019, NYC heralded the state’s commitment to unlimited abortion by lighting the top of the new World Trade Center (and three bridges) pink.
Raindrops?
Women dropped white
rose buds into a tiny
lace-canopied bassinet.
They lit tall candles
as they called the names
and said goodbyes.
They received a long-stemmed red rose,
a hug, and a beige certificate with
the name of the mom, the dad, and the child.
A brass snuffer
blotted out the flame
of each taper.
On ivory helium-filled balloons, mothers wrote
the names of their aborted and
released them into misting clouds.
Just raindrops on my
cheeks as James’ globe
drifted up, wee small, into the sky?
August 1, 2018
Who?
Stout, short,
blond hair,
mouth a cavern,
her fists
punch placards to the skies
Cruel and Unusual Punishment,
Stop State Murder,
Don’t Kill for Me,
she cries.
Shouting invectives,
Pro-Choice and Proud,
Keep Your Laws Off My Body,
Keep Your God Out of My Womb,
she chooses electives.
Who cries for the heart
ardent for the murderer,
pitiless to the unseen innocent?
May 19, 2014, revised June 2016
Language War
Today the news reported
police “neutralized” the “shooter,”
but a murderous gunman was shot dead
after killing nine others.
Last week broadcasts said
organs of the “unborn”
were “harvested,” used for research,
but body parts of aborted babies
were sold over salads at lunch.
These things happened;
cannot the truth be told?
Who sanitizes the words?
Anesthetizes us,
frogs in a warming pot?
Fall 2015
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