The Self-Appointed Friends Of History

Discuss on Facebook the coordinates of
the graves of the lost children
repeat the knowledge we have
of no place, of no name
oblivious to the visceral sadness
that still abides in living memories.

Stillborn silence — the historic trope
from the blandest of decades
in the allegedly lucky country
you just got on with life didn’t you?

Todays’ online chat is no less cruel
just unintentionally obtuse
without critique of state sanctioned
brutality served upon the women
whose lived realities were swept aside.

The early rupturing placentas
resulting in tortured dry deliveries
the lonely cries in sterile delivery wards
from mothers emptied of lifeless babies
who mutely made their way
into the light for the first and last time.

And an old neighbour might’ve mumbled
poor little bugger (only sometimes bastards)
a government-supported scheme for grieving families
consigned these tiny corpses to unmarked graves
in the locus of the damned
as if destined to meet the devil at the crossroads
in a field pocked with foetal-shaped divots.