Colin J, Korney

Four wind blow along the street,
each a-wailing, a-wailing and a-tailing
hoping to greet the woman who placed
the baby in the can.

A baby boy – newborn, two months, colic, and
oh – how he screams

Especially at night.

He could have been my son, my brother, a relative of some sort
white plastic bag, his crib, slim fitting for young prince
FAMILY FOODS in block, black lettering, sweet ironic justice.

CrimsoN (blood courses through his infant veins)
CrimsoN (his mother’s blood-stained hands as she lay him to
Suffocate in the can)

Tossing his remnants out with the morning trash.

(by evening, he will be an unwanted memory
digestible dinner for some garbage rat)

SuffocatioN      AsphixiatioN       ExaspeatioN        CriminalizatioN
any word will do

Throw out vernacular like you
throw out the trash.

But, the child lives
by the will of mortals, he shall live.
and he breathes,
by the law almighty, he shall breathe.
and he grows,
by the sins of society, he shall grow.

Purgatory – such a fitting name for a fine, strong man whose reasoning festers between
Heaven and Hell’s domain.

Do you recognize him now, Black Madonna?
He is knocking at your door.

He returns to your step bearing his bed –
shrivelled husk of plastic, black-stained foetus, an unwanted dream.

Will you hug him and kiss him, say how much you missed him –
 or plead temporary insanity?

When he slips his bed over your head, your intentions will become one.

Justice has been served.

Shed what feigned tears, you have left, and place them inside the bag,
toss them out with the morning trash,
along with whatever morals remain.