Shelf life

When dreams die
in a convenient place
between boxes
of dried milk, you understand
the sacrifice--
the cupboard unlatched,
ajar,
waiting.

Some items aren't ready
to be discarded.
They aren't meant
for donation, either.
So your Greed
plans the trajectory,
the shelf life
of your grandest wishes,
and decides that

sure, we won't prepare these
today;
we daresn't use them
now,
but when my daughter is grown

they can be among
the shit that gets thrown away
for being spoiled.

Not in the cards

I would love to be gentle all the time,
stroke the surface of each day,
coax it into light and being.
I would love to take the warm chemicals
of my womb and alchemize it--
with your assistance--
to bring forth, eventually,
from this kiln of chance
some new beauty, scared and loved.
But no.
That's not what
I've been asked to do.
Goal posts move feet, not inches--
with your assistance--
and gentleness has become
an inappropriate response
juxtaposed
with your bear traps
along the path.
Like your weapons,
you show teeth
and greedily
grab chunks of light
from each hour.
How much can be replaced?
How can we fix what is broken
when you don't want us to live?