You think of the bodies
that never had a life.
Tiny eyes scooped
by some relentless hand,
tucked up under the earth
in hopes of being forgotten.
Only I and the evil know.
The cross never got here.
Deigned to do further indignities
on the little fists curled in protest,
my one mantra just –
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
These are the cases
to make the risky roar come further,
the ones that make nurses take poison
into their own.
My regret is that I cannot stop them.
The tide of death, the sea,