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.
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.