the killer’s mother says
as she asks the victims to feel
her prayers
imagine her pain
looking at photos of the bodies
a dull knife
slicing into her belly
what song to sing
what blue sky
sweet air
can ever be hers
what’s left
but to mourn
wish her son
was never born
if not for her
there’d be no baby
she held, comforted
fed with a spoon
no baby to turn
what poison
had she passed into her womb
the undecorated room
where his fingers grew long enough
to fit the trigger so well
what was she thinking
the day his brain formed
as he lay curled inside her
the time bomb gene
melting under his tongue
he could have been
my son