Mother to Child (read with care, may be disturbing)

not delicately defused, my blind bête noire,

not resistant to water yet lavishly gluttonous

and carried by monied pupils, flounders around

the tin can rain of yesterday’s roof, laughingly

unforgiven, seething, and blue.

misguided trance-like squid, why do you spill

your guts quietly like earthquakes on mute? fill

this vacant quandary with something akin to

dead bodies, at least, so I,

your prosecutor,

your defense,

your judge,

and your child,

feel some sense of remorse for what you have done

and what I soon will do.