5 Hot Buttons by Pat Johnston
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The Prize
Marked by her love, wrapped in her shame, And prized for her young, fertile womb, She broods like a mare awaiting a foal, Without stallion or trainer or groom. Not yet a wife, yet filled up with life, She waxes to full, like the moon, And waits for the day when her infant arrives, And is taken away much too soon. For that is the prize, a new, healthy life, To nourish the barren, sere dreams, Of the ones who would be just like you and like me, So they gain, not by love, but by means. She labors alone, both body and soul, Torn apart by the forced separation, Told to live lies, she follows the rules, To protect the myths of a nation. Alone in her room, in the darkness of night, Surrounded by secrets and lies, She admits to herself that her best-loved is gone, And, in spite of the myths, she still cries. The child of her flesh will now grow and become, Under other, more alien eyes, Coveted most, more than silver or gold, Her sweet little babe is the Prize. Like the prey in a herd, that was weaker than most, She just can't escape, though she tries. She remembers the day that her child went away, In a predator's arms, as a Prize.
Robin Westbrook (c) 2001
From Eveknight62@aol.com
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