she stands tall and frail, her hands like souls
her heart a maraca in a thunderstorm,
swears she could hear the frantic pounding
echoing off the courtroom walls.
sounds of paper crinkling and slicking against desks makes something in her soul cringe,
and she can smell the summer heat, choking and spicy,
almost as clear as the breath down her neck.

21, and she feels her world is ending.
grew up a little rich
compared to what her dealers were spending.
still, stuck without help,
without support for her affliction;
if only it wasn’t more than a serious addiction.

she could have gotten clean,
told her doctor and her lawyer,
if there had only been a law for her.
the judge wasn’t listening,
wasn’t taking her side,
and unfortunately, it wasn’t more than a matter of pride.

21, and a felony under her belt.
‘child endangerment’ the card she’d been dealt.
not saying it was right for her to go on,
but with not knowing she was pregnant, a line could be drawn.
not saying I know when a life should ‘begin,’
but charges shouldn’t be given based on your ‘sins.’

fetal harm laws seem to help time to time,
but with them these mothers’re told they’re part of a crime.
made to help and not hurt,
give a grieving parent their dues,
so why are they only giving mothers the blues?

tall and firm and college smart,
their collars as blue as their money.
the wood under their hands smoothed from use,
and to them,
the verdict seems funny.