To  A One Child Policy
by Cleopatra Lim

“over my dead body” means nothing to him; his
name is the last thing on lips of hundreds strewn across
the field of red. roses placed in empty caskets at home
and now, in a casket measured eleven inches long— the
smallest they owned. me and you, even the two of us
weighed less to him than a quail’s egg nestled. inside me just
seven months; seven seconds it took for you to be taken.
from under my ribs, a shot in the dark-- a needle to your
little heart-- three faltering beats and silence. in our house
a shrine for you-who-would-have-been; kneeled by it I
saw your brother. whose eyes couldn’t meet mine and he asked
if you died because he lived and I couldn’t say no.
and outside thunder cracked and so did
your mother’s heart.
   

Cleopatra Lim immigrated from South Korea at a very young age. She now lives in northern New Jersey and enjoys nothing more than writing late into the night. You can find some of her early work in the anthology Tales of Our Lives: Fork in the Road and other published works in Golden Walkman Magazine and Angles Lit.