Three graves, three wooden crosses
Three little angels
Two stillborn, one dead within hours.
“No more babies,” the doctor warns.
“That’s in God’s hands,” her husband replies.
Within a year, another grave
Another cross
Another little angel.
“No more babies,” she pleads.
“We cannot make a mockery of marriage,” he says.
Pregnant again. Stillborn twins. Buried together.
“Enough,” she says to no one for no one will listen,
Not even to her prayers
And now, another grave.
This one has no wooden cross
She dug it herself, late last night
Buried the box of rat poison with him.
Author Bio:
Happily retired after many years of unhappy employment, Supie Dunbar is pursuing her interest in writing. She lives in Chicago with her good dog, Charlie.
Three little angels
Two stillborn, one dead within hours.
“No more babies,” the doctor warns.
“That’s in God’s hands,” her husband replies.
Within a year, another grave
Another cross
Another little angel.
“No more babies,” she pleads.
“We cannot make a mockery of marriage,” he says.
Pregnant again. Stillborn twins. Buried together.
“Enough,” she says to no one for no one will listen,
Not even to her prayers
And now, another grave.
This one has no wooden cross
She dug it herself, late last night
Buried the box of rat poison with him.
Author Bio:
Happily retired after many years of unhappy employment, Supie Dunbar is pursuing her interest in writing. She lives in Chicago with her good dog, Charlie.
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