I walk into a cell
The secured wing
Of a hospital.
A Hmong woman stands in the middle.
She is our queen of evil.
Baby killer, mass murderer.
A ghost fading into the whiteness of the walls
Into the darkness of her crime.
The only color:
The silver of the nailed-down toilet,
The silver of the metal door,
The silver of her ID tag.
There is no innocence.
None for the 12-year old bride.
None for the 24-year old mother of 6,
None for the rape survivor,
The domestic violence survivor,
None for the mother
Of a sexually-abused 8 year-old-girl.
Is there anything else she can do for us? She asks.
Is there anything we can do for her? I ask, shamed
For the rest of us.
But even my voice, now found, drowns
Into the unforgiveness of her children’s ghosts.
There is no justice for fallen angels
Whose silver wings were clipped
So long ago, that all people can see,
Are the silver bars of their cages,
And the silver bullets they drove into our hearts.
Even my wings cannot bear that weight and fall.
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