Poor mother, slaughtered by our human error, Ideal exhibit in your roadway grave, More grievous for your orphaned daughter’s terror, Not understanding I have come to save. Beneath you clinging still — untold, unsure — I shall not leave her, destined like some tortoise Or shattered armadillo. Premature, It seems, this late phase of your rigor mortis; Unfair, how far your flesh has come to harden. No second Eve am I. Trust her to me. The first time, you were murdered in the Garden Of Eden. Commend me, by your memory. I feel you watching from that Final Wild. I hear you: “Prosper, She-Who-Freed-My-Child.”