I live in a country united by people who love the land and are beginning to try to find ways to occupy the same space. Most do not succeed, many do not really want to succeed, but know realistically that they have no choice. My poetry does not always reflect this, but this one does:
Let’s go over this one more time:
Here’s the baby – born of me,
but the neighbor says he belongs to her.
And the judge looks like he really
doesn’t care one which whore wins
– just wants this case as precedent –
and the baby is making enough noise to give
us all a headache – so the judge
whips out his sword and says we’ll just
slice him up the middle. And I think maybe
in my job you have it you sell it and you still have it
but being a mother is about loving not owning
and I slip myself in between him and the sword.
The judge says here, he’s yours
And I say, you just don’t get it.