Not My Children
I open my door and with much relief,
find next door neighbor standing there.
She is one of few who knows of my grief
and terrible burden I bear.
My friend when we were family of four
and my friend when I’m now alone.
She is here to comfort when hot tears pour,
to calm fears that chill to the bone.
She knows of my love for my little boys
and past happiness with their dad,
that they were my deep enduring joys
until now when I am so sad.
When I met their father, he was a man
who’d had a tough blow from life.
I vowed to love him as much as I can,
to be an ever faithful wife.
Their dad went back to the woman he’d left,
who had once been declared insane,
the same one who had left him sad and bereft
when their little girls she had slain.
The judges have declared her safe and sound
and to be allowed to go free,
and to live with the man with whom I’m bound
and forced to share their custody.
So that’s why I’m walking the floor in fear,
until they’re safely home again.
It’s not fair my children so young and dear
are those needed to prove her sane.
(I wrote this in the first person after reading about it in the news. A mother who killed her own daughters while insane is being allowed by the courts to be caretaker for another mother’s children, because she is their father’s wife. Their mother is fighting back. And who can blame her?)
I don't think it was ever in a contest.
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