Blessed Unborn

Last winter I walked with my mother.

There were cracks in my marriage

or at least in my heart.

I was staying with my sister

five hours away from

the epicenter of my pain.


We moved slowly,

my mother and I,

bound in boots and cumbersome coats.

I described my discomfort

through a magnifying glass,

enlarging details while unintentionally

ignoring the larger picture.


My mother was bent

in attention and thought,

her expression seemed sad,

or maybe thoughtful.

She reflected briefly on the thicket of her life,

her self often obscured by the tangle of

the thorny needs of others.

I felt impaled by a  familiar stab

of excruciating empathy

then released it immediately.

It hurt to hold.


“If I could do it again,” she said,

“I would never have had children.”

I felt





Although I enjoy them,

I will never have children.

I have no faith that I would not pass on

my tainted inheritance





Pink sky melted to red.

The cold light of stars effervesced in the east.

I did not know then if

I could go home to the questions

that had burned through

every layer of me except

my self-protection.


In spite of this upheaval

I felt comfort.

I knew I had time

to evolve unfettered by others.

No small souls would go unnourished

nor be unintentional casualties

in  emotional warfare

as I had been.


We turned back west,

faced the fading fire and

I felt safe in the knowledge that

I would find my way and

my blessed unborn

would never be

accidentally crucified by my agony.

HS 8-20-2016




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