where she comes from | everything lost at birth | a poem

you told me in the most casual of voices

that violence is a private thing

something that prohibits interference

as if it were an act of intimacy

of attraction between a man and a woman

you say that to me with a baby in your arms

*

I look at your smirking face

and wonder

how long it will take

*

your mother keeps you close

because she put her broken life

inside of you

*

holding on to it

holding on to you

*

and she wails cancerously

within her false mouth

and theatrical throat

*

talks her way out of her inhumanness

that sickens me

baffles me

all she sees is death

not those closest to her

and she talks and talks

and never feels a thing

I

s t o p p e d

l i s t e n i n g

*

death is an unfelt spectacle

a tour de force,

performance for her

take in my pain and suffering

numbed herself a long time ago

screeching amidst the collective emptiness

matte tries to shine

*

when you open your mouth

I can’t feel a thing

*

she rocks her infant

and trivialises the violence that gave birth to her

and how can that ever be a bad thing

“Head of an Italian girl” by Elihu Vedder  (1836–1923)  

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