Kate, by Adam Francis Smith

A slightly longer poem than we would normally accept.

The daily papers played upon her fears:
Sometime soon the Earth would meet its ending.
Although she’d been an optimist for years,
She saw a world in dire need of mending.
 
To spare her child, she called upon the water,
consigned the toddler to its murky depth,
and marveled as this mystery; her daughter,
fought unto the end for every breath.
 
The struggle caused some doubt to slither in:
If one so young could fight so hard, so long,
was there perhaps a hope that Man might win,
and maybe she herself could be so strong?
 
Kate dragged the lifeless girl out of the drink,
pushed and prodded, pounded on her chest,
but no device cold turn her from the brink,
and so she slipped into her final rest.
 
Kate, confused and muddled, sought to flee
the guilt and grief that she could not confess.
She started over, but she was not free;
no means had she of penitent redress.
 
And so, alone, Kate died one dreadful night,
her baby’s violent struggles in her dream.
Forever now, she must endure her plight:
to hold her daughter’s face beneath the stream.