breach in motherhood

mother of arched back
and pale countenance
sometimes a stick figure
in thrall to you temper
with burning palms
your children writhing
and recoiling
like worms
you were barbwire
rigid, unswerving
with wicked knots
where the innocent
get tangled
their flesh torn and ripped
safe in throngs
or lucky days but
the children are magnets
pulled to the wire
splayed forlornly
in the dimness
of a hampered dawn

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