© (2015) Barbara Grace Lake

 

She came to be
One turbulent and messy spring.
Her mother howled obscenities
And belched her forth.

Unloved, unwanted
As the pain that forced her way,
She ended in an icy bed
Of winter snow.

Her life was short:
Two hundred eighty screaming days,
Before her tiny heartbeat stopped,
The hurting stopped.

The scene was pure
And colorless except for her;
Except for darkened purple blotches,
Ragged burns.

Dear God!  The red!
Bright where her body gashed the snow;
So darkly smeared on twisted legs,
In matted hair.

The cop asked, “Why?
In God’s name, why?  Oh Jesus! Shit!”
He retched, turned pale and vomited,
And retched again.

The answer came,
A mumbled, “Showed her who was boss.
Always crying.  Got no peace.
It’s quiet now.”

She came to be
One turbulent and messy spring.
She ended in an icy bed
Of winter snow.