a short, sad story to be told as a short, sad, shadow-puppet show

she
is a child
in the belly
of a woman
with no name
who herself lies
in the belly of a lamp
that has never been lit
she will never come out
of her shell
or leave her neighborhood
for that matter
she was considered an abortion
but for a staid hand
w/ a long lifeline, a short love line
and a pitifully short money line
and
a cross, clutched
embedded in her palm
but even the lord
cannot delay the inevitable

it is unclear whether
she will go o the heaven
her mother doodles on legal pads
where babies fly on dove's wings
forever clean and stupid and full of hope
she
wasn't sure that she liked this heaven
she
thought, rubbing her daughters shoulders
searching for wings

perhaps she will end up in the ground
not the pristine, hallowed ground pretended by cemetaries
but the real ground
where the bodies of babies were exhumed
in the crime shows
she watched when she was pregnant

the babies did not stay pristine
she thought
suddenly
distraught
at her child's mortality

she did not
want
to raise a child
in a world that would destroy it
she thought as she
lifted a hammer
and brought it down
on a head
as perfect and
white and round as
a porcelain bowl
getting blood on a blanket
that was really a washcloth

there are no funerals
for fatherless children
killed by nameless mothers
at least she's in heaven
aunts and uncles say to themselves
because they dare not speak about it

at least she's in heaven
where she willbe stupid
and beautiful forever
and never know
how bad she had it