Was there poison at
insemination?
Was nature’s plan for this child
corrupted
Beyond repair?
Or was it God’s odds-maker at
work?
Each failure lamented and
attributed elsewhere,
Crashing down the mountain with
hope near dead...again.
No more, I have nothing left.
My heart must grow strong and
resist pleas.
Yet, a muffled small gesture, a
bowed head,
And again I lean into a
preordained task.
The child, no longer a child,
This time will stand, this
time...
Vows are not enough.
Stiff chins are made for
presentation
And require no action.
Self preservation is not always
transparent.
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