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I’m not much of a poet. This will probably become clear to you. But I wrote this piece for my creative writing course, and I feel passionately about it. It breaks my heart. This is “Buckled.”


Soft skin, beautiful eyes opening.

Something delightful,

joy that comes from a baby’s smile,

counting tiny toes or sharing giggles.

A he or a she, miraculous, small,

a bundle of joy buckled in a baby seat.

First the baby was buckled inside a mother,

tucked in safe from a callous world.

Now, not even the womb is a shelter

when the miracle blooming inside is squashed.

A beautiful gift, a precious heartbeat,

a brain and eyes and a body itself,

torn to pieces, trampled, pulled limb by limb.

And they seek to justify it.