My ovaries tug
when we watch the Russian documentary
and how I'd love to take them all
scoop them up,
see that their stories not end
in the dark corner of a ward
Or the milk-sour sheets of a barred crib.
These children need light
light, and love
(and I have so much love to give)
But my arms cannot stretch across the ocean.
They are too far,
and cannot be comforted.
Reality is a bitter pill, twice-swallowed.
*The Damaged Children