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?