Spurning An Angel Poem by Mark Sauer

Once, cactus beetles mashed into beeswax
Made crimson her lips, bragging "I am young,
And ripe". Now, her aspect is grays and blacks,
Her lipstick is ash that grates on her tongue.
She carries grief like a stone in her womb,
A fetus of lead, a gray ice stillbirth.
She cannot escape the slaughtered one's tomb;
Its sepulcher is the whole of the Earth.
Dreams are still colored, nightmares are vivid;
The daughter comes nightly, stares with blue eyes-
Gold is her hair, her moist lips are livid-
Then silent departs, ignoring her cries.
Nobody warned her (all they said was a lie)
That killing her baby, the world would die.