they made the first cut
to the cervix, though the knife enters
through her abdomen, legs spread and naked
steel table, experimental procedure, kill the womb and
save the tax payers from one little two little three little
children, whose never to be
mother is told her poverty is to blame for the _
that lay beside her in a cold pan. "We'll stitch you up
with gov't pens that write scars across your parchment belly
demarcations of land split open like so much tilled soil--
doesn't she look life like! Land O' Lakes! Pocahontas
put your dress back on and dance, dance for us
empty uterus jingling against sad ribs. And where are your men?
Bring us the tall pine, our knives want to know him, too!
A cigar for the baby not born, tomahawk chop to the
vascular river of life, oh Kaw Liga you poor old wooden
head, redskin, warrior, don't you know this is how we honor you!"
Tanned skins drape over bones of men drawn to look
like the billboard of tears that ran down that faux face. Oh
Wahoo can you forgive us our sins as we try and try
to prosper in this culture of consumerism where even our bodies
are laid on tables like so much red meat and in the arms
where mothers held ghost babies to dry breast will you lay
one more time and suckle as we rock you to sleep with our
death song?