A Poem About an Important Thing

It’s Alive

I.

It’s Alive.
Hours of painstaking, electric passion now brilliantly awakened in awesome perfection.
A heart beat. My art’s feat. A triumph over common logic, now opens eyes and looks me right in the face.
But it’s Alive. My life’s desire glares grotesquely into my face like every nightmare ever dreamed is my dream’s ugly reality.
IT’S ALIVE!
Skin broken, stitches sprung, muscles tightening until the beast had moved, and moved ugly, at me. His hands, terrible hands, at me, its creator, with eternal malice in spite of creation at me.
How could it be alive? Why would I wish this decision? Why work with this grotesque precision for an abhorrence, thrust now mad upon mankind.

Now it’s alive. Not like the mangled body of poor, pure, William. Not like that seven year old ladies man, Louisa Byron no longer fated for his arm. And at my selfish hand, Justine, Justine, while blood flows freely through my veins and despair grips my beating heart, lays accused of the murder I, by my irresponsibility, committed.
“Devil! Fiend that thou art! the tortures of hell are too mild” Monster! Demon!

II.

Precious child, brought to her mother at precisely 8:15. Nine short months, a few testing hours, struggles economically, physically, don’t get us started on emotionally, merely hurdles to leap, or more often, mountains to move, but with the right crew, and a little dynamite, we made it through to now, looking at this tiny angel and standing in silent awe.

She’s alive. Those moments and hours of painstaking, electric passion now brilliantly awakened in awesome perfection.
A heartbeat. God’s art’s feat. A triumph over common logic now opens eyes and looks me right in the face.
But it’s Alive. The future with my life’s desire now glares gluttonous into my face like every nightmare of the past nine months is only the beginning of reality. Work is hard and doesn’t pay enough. Love is tough and tough love is tougher. I don’t want to have to say no because “daddy can’t afford it” or “that money’s for school so daddy can afford it one day. Now go to sleep sweety. Remember to pray.” Sometimes stress doesn’t settle until we realize that someday happened today.
OH SHE’S ALIVE!
Skin awoken, eyes sprung, muscles tightening until her arms had moved, and moved gorgeous, at me. Her hands, precious hands, at me, her creator, with eternal love in spite of my follies, my imperfections.
How could she be alive? How could I be a part of this miracle? Why question the store of God’s grace for the future when an infinite measure of grace is packaged and presented before me in such subtle and grandiose splendor?


III.

It’s apparent that I’m not. But for parents, apparently, at least for a lot, I think it’s time we wake up and hear the midnight crying that for too long we’ve been ignoring. We can’t just roll over and whisper “it’s your turn this time” anymore. The screaming, the wailing, the whimper down the hallway isn’t something we can put off any longer.

In 2007, one year, one study showed that 1,760 infants were murdered by neglect and abuse in the United States. One “developed” nation carries the burden of 1,760 precious bodies, piled high polluting boundaries between stressful parenthood and silent genocide.

It’s so important that we sit up, late if we have to, and take responsibility for our actions, take painstaking responsibility for moments of electric passion,

It’s time we sit humbly at God’s feet take a second and third look at our interactions with the fragile, logic defying angels entrusted to us.

Because it’s ALIVE! It glares grotesquely even into the least expectant face. “perfect parents” on the outside beat and bruise their children from the inside, crushing their hearts with emotional attacks, declarations of worthlessness, indifference to quickly maturing feelings clipped before the rosebuds have a chance to open.

IT’S ALIVE!
Heartbroken, muscles sprung, hell bent, the beast, dialogue writ in Shelley’s art, unloved, forsaken, life forgone, “I, the miserable and abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on.”