Tell me that this is only a nightmare,
a simple bit of undigested beef.
Tell me that I am not sitting here
being called the defendant,
fighting to keep my children –
my life, my heart,
my reason for getting up in the morning –
from being ripped away from me,
brought to reside half a world away,
leaving me carved and cleft.
Please, I beg of you, tell me
that this is simply one more of your many lies.
Tell me that you are simply
unable to put their lives and futures
on the block for your own financial gain.
If you had a shred of maternal love,
or a modicum of emotional honesty,
you would admit to your greed
over-ruling what you know is best,
you would put their needs above your own
for the very first time.
Tell me that you paint me as a monster,
a follower of impulses that should put me away,
instead of portraying the good you resolve
simply because you know of no other way,
and not because you do not intend the best
for the two lives we have both created.
Tell me that this is not happening,
tell me you have changed your mind.
Lie to me once more, you are good at it.
Practice, after all, makes perfect.
This poem appeared in the chapbook "Grief Tattoos" - get it for the Kindle HERE
©2010 Christopher Reilley
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