A mother’s hands stack clean needles, latex gloves.
For our children, she says, for the lost ones.
For the ones we’ve saved many times before,
For the ones we hope to save just one time more.
Why, neighbours ask while politicians gloat.
Why chain the monster only to offer our throats?
Why save a life to simply hand them the knife?
Do you see, can’t you see, why can’t you see?!
The blade’s been here all this time, sharpened with age;
clattered down from a war, from the mines, from the sea.
The monster’s been prodded to this uncontrollable rage.
Dominion dragged out the last job, sycophants promise hope.
Drinking deep of red water, forbidden to choke.
Go down to the pump, or go into the city.
Haul your own share, don’t wait on my pity.
Come ’round now b’y, we can’t save you again.
But if not again, then when?
When will they give us the Suboxone we need?
When will the men on the hill see the children that we grieve?
The neighbours run as they hear the song of the fairies;
beautiful and haunting, it puts the children at ease.
So fair is the hag as she comes up from the Garden.
Come with me young one and I’ll offer my pardon,
for the things that you’ve seen and the cross that you bare.
The pain of your father will no longer be yours to share.
She speaks in riddles; the spirits of dead miners lead them below.
And they go…
Too far too reach, too confused to hear.
The flute and dry house song catches the ear,
of anyone who will stop to listen.
A mother remains at the battery to fight her daughter’s demons.
She arms the coastal fortifications while shining a beacon,
to the country that forgot a long time ago,
Wabana’s children didn’t die with the mine.
They did not go down with the ship and did not vanish with time.
And as shift changes, night falls she returns to the beach.
If she’s lucky she found just one soul to reach.
If she’s lucky her daughter will know that she’s loved.
A mother’s hands stack clean needles, latex gloves.
For our children, she says, for the lost ones.
