The God of Small Children
Sometimes they must be conjoined
or burned or raped to get our attention,
their little warranties expired,
their fob of a heart forever detached.
They must be living in squalor,
singing their trashcan lullabies
to the dogs and cats,
or shaken like a milkshake
at the hands of a careless adult
who can’t take the crying,
the melody of the body’s
The god of small children listens
to every terrible song ever sung
yet still remains silent
while tumors grow like tulips
and babies sink like teddy bears
in the bottoms of tubs.
It means that closer to home,
the quiet kid down the street
is buying ammo online
to take to school tomorrow.
The god of small children doesn’t mourn
their luck, which is nothing but bad.
All those voices bathed in fear
bathed in anger, seemingly soundless,
with just the raw air scolding us all.