Three thumbs,
an inverted nose -
the socket dilapidated and hollow
from which her left arm grows;

yet, quietly she breathes,
whilst her life-support machine hums,
chewing on her sixth finger
from a mouth with no gums.

The accidental off-spring
of one belated wife
and one related groom -
a nightmarish parody,
twisted from the bruises of a womb -

but, by miracle, she lives
crying from eyes that won't close -
a new-born child
with the face of a blackened rose;

and outside,
out of raging curiosity,
the whole world queues,
trying to see the baby in the little red shoes.

Would it be so bad if it dies?
Would it be so bad
not to hear its gurgling cries?

Or would you want it to live,
take away its self-respect,
just like a thief,
force it to live in a life
of ridiculing grief -

What would you choose
for the deformed child in the little red shoes?