Stomach sickly, in a knot
shall I stop,
shall I turn homeward with my guilt
burning fiercer than my fear?
It's that Sunday
again to see my unforgiven self
in that stranger's eyes,
eyes that stare as newborns
at the face of God.
Semi-circled holding pens,
once full lives now hollow husks,
drying dying brains
living in the who knows where.
She looks through me to God,
she looks to Him and why?
is in her eyes.
I put her here, the mother I don't know.
she exists - that's it - exists.
I signed the paper; me, the one
she brought into this world.
Is this her payment now?
'It's for the best' they say
I wonder if she feels that way.
Who knows? - she cannot say.
I talk, she does not understand,
she doesn't know who I am, why I am,
I know not now the why.
I'll leave soon, she will not cry.
What is the point?
I ask myself.
Mutual strangers, that we are.
I suffer, she does not, it seems
each time we meet she gets
a brand new friend.
I stand, I pause, I say goodbye,
she looks once more at Him.
Our roles reverse, she is the child.
I become the mother, leaving,
the stomach knot returning.
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