A Request

You show me the woman built tall

By the chronic pulsing, the crankèd spine, the unsolved murder of sleep;

The torn birth-bearer, the migraines blinding her,

An d tell me the woman is stronger for it all,

And would not trade the lessons she’s earned,

And I’ll show you: in pain, God is making the best of

A nuclear missile, launched by the devil, aimed at the daughters;

I’ll tell you that pain is a hijacked body hurtling towards terror, and when

She doesn’t crash,

                Doesn’t crack,

                                Breaks down,

                                                But doesn’t die,

I’ve thanked God for that, but with bitter dreams of fire

And the sour taste of smoke in my mouth

For a long time after.

So I go on begging. I will beg,

From within the wide arms of God’s watch,

For my sisters:

A little less pain.