a poem by Sarah Chafin

might as well call me Octavia,

I’m your eighth child after all

(as far as I know).

I hope I was your last,

that you didn’t leave behind

an even longer trail of brokenness

and children wondering if evil seeps

into their blood even when the man

who fathered them is locked away.

I hope you didn’t leave more women

in tears, raising offspring they love

who wear the eyes of the man they hate.

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