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Mothers, will you imagine?
Imagine with me if you will,
and put aside your preconceived notions
there is a hole in my heart I can’t fill . . .
This hole exists for the mothers
boxed in their prisons of dirt
pregnant, and weak and afraid
their eyes stagnant mirrors of hurt
They exist not for themselves
not even for the children they bear
the child they will never get to know
their voices they will never hear . . .
Except for the screams.
The screams drown out the others
the others have faded with time
these ones are suddenly different
these ones are coming from “mine.”
Crimson runs red in the dust
forming droplets like orbs of glass
they are violated, amputated and slaughtered
having never felt a single blade of grass.
So mothers, will you imagine?
being trapped in cold iron bars
your child stolen from birth
nothing to remember, but scars.
Copyright Stevie Aubuchon-Mendoza 2015
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