she was a martyr; of course
three children, never more
Obedient, never too sure of herself: reliant, gave it all up
her dreams, the silver screen, a life full and she made believe
it was silly, though, of course she knew that
her body was made for a baby, - her womb, did she know, it’d be a grave?
time of death: 3:05, but at least the baby was healthy
her husband felt bad, but no, he wouldn’t dwell
he’d pick up a new woman, never let his heart swell
three kids, a dog, the American Dream.
nevermind her dream,
whatever she wanted would turn into wanting a home to keep
couldn’t we have taken her to a hospital?
we did all we could, it was all we could
it’s just what happens
but she’s a martyr, they assured family and friends
the son she birthed, the first of the family
did she know in ending a life she’d create a new bloodline?
foolish to think of it all too much,
they said she was happy the way it all was
but her daughters whispered about the way she’d weep
she read to much before she was married, it gave her a head cold
her husband worked the revolution out of her
worn down, dragged out she decided to let it all be
eyes slick with “we’ve been here before”
but she agreed to stop wondering
his greatest strength was her greatest weakness
her daughters recalled her whispering, “i could’ve been a star!”
followed up with “do it for me” and “you know i'll try”
she’ll whisper, cheek to cheek, or palm to palm
if she was a martyr, does that make her holy?
does it render her, up for sainthood?
fervently searching the earth for something more than this
the men, they’re thankful for the women
but they’re thankful in the way that the farmer grins at his new calves,
eyes glistening and grinning,
they’re young and soft but that’s what makes the kill feel so fresh
we know where our next meal will be coming from
like a lamb to the slaughter, she moves slow
she never knew this was all she had to offer