Dante didn’t know…

Dante didn’t know…

that babykillers are sometimes accidentally christened so,
their only intent: to silence their child’s screaming,
not forever, but just for the moment. Their hand too
heavy for a soft child’s skull to absorb impact from,
or breathe around, due to a runny nose. Perhaps they
shook just a tad too hard in the middle of play,
realizing, too late, that infantile necks are too
underdeveloped to withstand rough play, panicking
when their child went too still in their arms.

The ones who get away with it, how do they live
with the guilt? Do they lay flowers on the
fresh mound of earth in their backyards, that
tiny little grave a constant reminder, or do they
avoid the place, afraid the neighbors will notice
in a way they don’t when lost pets are likewise interred?
How can find answers to friend’s innocent queries,
hastily concocting lies, all the while hearing the phantom cries
of their late child reverberating through their house?
Maybe they have come to believe in their own words.

Did you know, Dante, that not all murder is calculated?
That not all lust is intentional? Perhaps in your day
everything was carefully planned out, but nowadays,
these things can happen so accidentally. It’s not apocalyptic.
Just normal. A prostitute enrages a patron who chokes her,
a little too hard, during routine business. He never stops,
never questions her silence, her too pliable yielding underneath him,
until he’s finished, and she still hasn’t moved or opened her eyes.
Does he deserve to be punished or was this a simple encounter with fate?

Sometimes suicides make sense. The abused teen,
the alcoholic asleep at the wheel, the child discovering electricity
through a fork and outlet. Maybe hatchmarks on forearms
are museum masterpieces in other dimensions. Maybe
toasters are asking to be poked at with knives, their seductive voices
audible to only a chosen few, those they know will listen.
Why do we punish those who are too scared to live?
Shouldn’t we comfort them instead?

Faker

Faker

The eye can only stretch so far.
Your perception of me is nothing new,
nothing these ears haven’t heard before.
Why not dissect me like a frog,
pin me down, unzip my costume
and expose exactly what lies inside:
sharp edges, sarcasm,
lengthy explanations for useless information,
endless wide-eyed expressions
of love or lust, or both.
Behind this beating heart,
can you see the Nothing?
It’s seeping, seeping
into every organ, out of every pore,
fading me to empty.
Don’t worry, everything can be
fixed easily with cosmetic surgery,
I’ll become faker than your child’s
Barbie doll. It seems to be the trend.