Child Without A Name Poem by John F. McCullagh

I spoke no human language.
I never put on clothes.
The sum of my possessions
was ten fingers and ten toes.

My mother was too rich or poor.
Too scared, too old, too young,
So many reasons for her choice,
by which I was undone.

I never felt the sunshine,
or sailed the wine dark sea.
I had a heartbeat just like yours
until they murdered me.

There are those who would protest my death
But most here are nihilistic.
To some I was a child of God;
to others, a statistic.

I have no death certificate
I have no human name.
I was terribly inconvenient,
but I was human, just the same.