Unborn infants fall,
bubbles bursting on concrete loam
(gravel sounds too boring),
and they're dead
but cry anyway because it hurts me.
I know where they learned to be sadistic.

Mothers glare,
shoo wide-eyed children across four lanes
of midday traffic,
just because my locks are pretty violet,
a shade I rather like,
myself;
I wonder at their motivations,
but then distractions sprout like dragons
from city storm drains
and I forget to act hostile
for dramatic effect.
Shame.

Still those infants scream,
amniotic amnesty seeping into topsoil
so soft and silky under bare feet;
their parents hate my kinds,
blind offspring know no better,
and the wailing builds into a hate call
though I know not why I'm marked
for this indulgence.

I pick one up,
cradle waxy limbs in sorrow
for a life extinguished—
I'm human too,
aware of suffering beyond myself;
steel and ammonia don't distinguish
the heartless ones;
the tiny body burns my eyes with tragedy
just like I would have felt
if he were mine.

Someday I'll be the woman
with her spirit in her arms,
newborn babe depraved by prejudice
and inconsideration;
as a matron will I turn the same mad eye
upon the kind of youngling I indulged?
Infuse the unenthused
with dregs of tolerance.