A Mother and Her Child

An ode and a lament, or perhaps a eulogy

Author’s Note: This was originally written in November 2025. I await the day when it is a reminder of history, not representing the lived reality for so many.

Untitled (Woman and Child); ca. 1950; Selma Burke; Source: Smithsonian American Art Museum

CEFR Level B2-C1

“I couldn’t protect you,” she moaned.

“It’s all your fault,” they shouted at her.

“My dear child, my heart, my soul,” she breathed.

“We really don’t understand you,” they scoffed.

“I can’t protect you,” she sighed.

“If you’d just be me, you wouldn’t be you.” They taunted her terror.

“I will protect you for as long as I can.” A tear betrayed her fear.

She took another step forward. 

“What are you doing? Get back!” They scolded.

She cradled her baby closer.

“How could you! Don’t you know any better?” They mocked.

“I will try. I give you my life, I will try,” she whispered.

“Why are you still here?” They pushed her away.

She watched as the child in her arms

Fell in view, a bullet in her body the latest gossip on the national news.

She listened as the child in her arms

Sang with joy, his hands sticky from the blood of another mother’s child.

She smelled, with her child in her arms,

The burning of things not meant to be burned.

She tasted, with her child in her arms,

Nothing, for there was nothing to be had.

She felt, with her child in her arms,

All the vulnerability of living and vowed

“I will protect you, though the way is more than I know how.”

Then the tractor moved in, someone gently pulled her arm,

And not even a mound of dirt marked the spot.