Legal Murder

Maybe we knew it when we saw it,

the women clutching the loss of nothing.

Invited to a clinic door,

the inside is a blood-spilling hell.

Maybe we know murder when we see it,

maybe it is a privilege, a right, in disguise.

The staff dressed in white and wearing crimson grins,

their knifes, suctions, and smiles like war machines.

They paint themselves every morning, 

with the lies they tell themselves at night.

Maybe we knew they were mothers all along,

now mothers of murdered children with privatized grief.

Their eyes are fragile, submerged in soaked pain,

their mouths lie of freedom, choice, and power.

The clinic drains blood to the street,

the blood that drips only from the hands of the staff.

Maybe we knew two people went in,

maybe we knew only one came out.