To Beat the Child Was Bad Enough

A young body, light As winter sunshine, a new Seed's bursting promise, Hung from a string of silence Above its future. (The chance of choice was never known.) Hunger, new hands, strange voices, Its cry came natural, tearing. Water boiled in innocence, gaily In a cheap pot. The child exchanged its Curiosity for terror. The skin Withdrew, the flesh submitted. Now, cries make shards Of broken air, beyond an unremembered Hunger and the peace of strange hands. A young body floats. Silently.