Our sons were born in Coventry - flipside B

Our sons were born in Coventry

Then woe is me, poor child, for thee,
and ever mourn and say

from the moment of your birth
your death belonged to someone else.

Between 18 and 26, they'll tag
you and they can spend you
as they please.

It was not for this
that I carried you, feeding you
my blood in the secret garden
of my womb.

It was not for this
that I suckled you, feeding you
my body through the first year,
and the second, and on beyond
until I'd given you six years
at my breast and you
chose to wean.

It was not for this
that I prayed
at 27 weeks when you stopped
kicking. I prayed and I don't believe
in prayer. I don't believe in God
most of the time. I prayed
to God; I prayed to any god that might be
there. I prayed to technology, prayed to
you, for the scant thread of your
life.

It was not for this
that I bandaged your knees and cut
your meat, held you through your
tears and cherished every
smile. It was not to grow you into
a government-owned death machine.

But there it is...
they keep telling us our sons
are the price we must pay.

We believe, apparently. We carve our debt
in to and out of
your flesh again and again beginning with the
first slice on the circumcision board, cutting off your
manhood to make you into
men who can die.

But that wound is not
enough. We kill you
early and often, leaving you in the
dark to cry, telling you to be
brave, to be strong, to be
tough. We twist your
compassion and tenderness
against you; it makes you weak,
and it's the lever that moves you from
gentle caretaker to blind killer.

Built to provide
and protect, we pervert your love
for mother and child, for woman
and home. Bend your strength to
another purpose, whittling you
away to the bleeding edge.

Enough. I say,
enough!!! I will not spend
you, not any one of you.

They=re bringing out the guns again,
huroo, huroo.
They're bringing out the guns again,
huroo, huroo.
They're bringing out the guns again,
but they'll never take our sons again.

It was not for this.

2005

Thoughts and Comments

The first and second to last verses are sung. The first verse is from The Coventry Carol and the second to last verse is from Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye.

I performed this piece at the December Poetry Slam in Eugene.