A Mother's Plea

The cure shouldn't take so long;
shouldn't be so painful;
shouldn't rip them from pinwheels
on the front lawn
and whisk them away
to buildings of glass and concrete.

Battleships,
adrift in cities and towns,
house the small ones
we hold onto so tightly
until we're forced to let go
and let the doctors
cut the cancer out.
Burn it!
Poison it!
While we pray the same prayer
over and over.

Save my baby, please...
Save my baby.
I'll do anything to have her back again
Can you work that miracle?