The Human Genre Project

When she left her children

with their father,
she was no mother,
rather, a half filled shell.

When she left,
his vengeance triggered her guilt
daily, shell casings scattered
where the children wanted to play.

When she left,
she was no mother, rather,
a nymph lying fetal in her shell
beneath the sea of all.

When she left, her children
tucked their little turtle heads
inside their shells
and blindly braved their way.

Ruth Sabath Rosenthal