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The room looked ghastly.
Oblique she lay
gutted
by my bayonet scalpel
her entrails had slid
like snakes
onto white sheets
and dark, stale blood
lay in congealed pools
over blankets.

Detached I was
protection
outsider to the scene
my fiery throat
gasping with vomit
wet hands
stained sticky
by her blood.

Not bitter sweet
but abject horror
swamped the joy
when her baby cried
its first pitiful moan
questioning me
maybe angry
at a forcible parting
from a dying womb
dying mother.

Haunted by codes
I muse
without sleep
on my deed.

For whom and why
did I act?
For mother
or babe
for God
or self?

To visit all of Everard S. Polakow's poems, click HERE

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