Sound Tracks

— Barbara Saxton

Newborn hazel eyes
scan my face, silver lasers
radiating love and outrage
in equal measure.

How could I leave him,
freshly born, still scented
with birth fluids?

But it was my turn to slide
down spiral tunnels and bounce
off scarlet walls, my mind’s canoe
bobbed up, then down
my blood’s quick currents.

Rachel died like this, punished
for hiding her father’s strange idols.
She named her new son Ben of my mourning,
and bled out with his afterbirth.

I cried my son’s name
as they scraped my womb clean.
My tears formed blue oceans
he’d someday learn to cross.
My fists drummed steel gurney rails
to ancient rhythms apt for mimic
by the future’s
supple fingers.

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