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


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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