Not Even A Number Poem by Eric Cockrell
Not Even A Number
tiny small hands
curled up in death
that reached for the breasts
of the mother....
lips swollen and parted,
face bruised and distorted,
left to rot.... in a dumpster.
spit out by the system,
trash begats trash...
no one knows the name
of mother or child....
in the land of Jesus,
SUV's and credit cards,
not a prayer....
not even a number!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 11:44:01 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
