sick of this shit, white men and their bible blather, pathetic tough talk, grinning chins lifted as if they float above the scum they swim in.

I am a mother listening to mournful sobs of a thousand children and more with bellies empty, these babies, their cries of pain and fever, of abandonment, terror, who just want to remember where home is.

I am a mother, dammit, and I demand to know where the diapers are kept? and the blankets, the teddy bears? how about a book to read at bedtime? or a rocking chair to calm the terror that runs through her tiny body, turns into diarrhea and vomit? and that 6-yr-old over there, fingers in his mouth, has a lose tooth. can someone pull it, save it in a jar as a keepsake for him? or will there only be room for tears? and who is tending to the wounded lifetime tattooed on her heart? maybe a band aid will help. toothbrushes, where are they kept? how about a swing? how about a ball to bounce, and could someone help him tie his shoe before he trips and hurts himself?

Maria, Santiago, Elena, Jaun—so many mothers have seen your beautiful faces. We know you’re there, we will fight for you.

Can someone please tell me which child I can save?

I am a mother.

Photo Credit: Barta IV Flickr via Compfight cc

Marsha Owens

Marsha is a retired educator who lives and writes in Richmond VA. Her favorite quote for these troubled times: “Take your broken heart and turn it into art.” (Meryl Streep) Her work has been published at NewVerseNews, The Wild Word, and Life in 10 Minutes. #Resist

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