"New Shit Slam" Poem 2 of 3

Second of three poems in three weeks for the "New Shit" Slam. Today I met slam poet El Jones and she says she never spends more than 2-6 hours on a poem. I tried to go with less control in these three pieces. Although to be far this poem was seeded over the summer after a Netflix documentary binge. This one could be expanded.

Poem for Missing and Exploited Children

There are places where when a child is born it isn’t a child

it is a sacrificial lamb. A black and blue offering to the god of hardship.

It is an orifice, a hole where no light escapes.

And here are places where the cracks in the sidewalks are large enough to swallow a teenager

into an underworld. 

They move like specters. 

We see through them on the streets. 

Ethereal figures with large hungry eyes.

We do not see them because we do not see faces white as the milk cartons that label them 'missing'.

And there are places where the bodies of the missing are laid to sleep in pine boxes

sharpied with names that no longer seem to fit, like Destiny or Hope.

And they are folded up into

gossamer wings to carry them to the next life

but not angel wings, but papery moth's wings;

hospital gowns tied lightly.

They are lowered into the ground by prisoners.

The last person to see their names

is also invisible.

And there are places so dark we can’t see them.

Where children are sold like cigarettes

burned and discarded.

Twenty others behind them

all the same.  

There are places on the internet where, for a fee, a man can get his rocks off on

the backs of children.

The most searched for words in porn are "teen" and "abuse."

There are places where a man can go to get an young child to have sex with.

Exotic places like Pattaya, Thailand or Atlanta, Georgia.  

We live in these places. 
What a privilege it is not to see 
the faces of the missing when we close our eyes.