Tiny suckling body cradles a fever
of unforgiveness, then succumbs.
The passion of a king was loosed
in the Spring, when lambs are born
and lie, their coats slick and glistening
like oiled olive skin.
The blameless bred lust and riled
rape into being.
Power’s prerogatives are covert.
Innocents are pierced without
recourse. From dying lips a question
escapes. How many lambs
are required for redemption?
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