(Matthew 2:16)

I’ve slaughtered babies all day long,

near Bethlehem. But why? If the wizards are right,

nothing can alter the Fates, and, if they’re wrong,

we’re killing without a reason. So now, at night,

I wash the dry and splattered blood away,

then fall to sleep, into a feverish hell,

hearing the wails of the mothers as they pray

for retribution and vengeance, hearing, as well,

my mother’s voice — who nursed me through the sweats

when I was born — whose melodious words now sing,

above the whirl of curses and alien threats:

“Whoever injures a child is a fiendish thing,”

whispering, like Rachel, not so long ago,

“and lower than the lowest of the low.”