Mistrial
The first thought I had
when the judge declared
the Lindsay Clancy murder case
a mistrial: what a nightmare—
I couldn’t imagine a mother
with a plan
to strangle her kids—so horrific,
so wrong it defies
language.
I no longer own
a physical dictionary
to look up filicide.
The word itself
offers no closure,
no comfort
for this level of brutality.
Who isn’t exhausted
most of the time?
I miss the two days a week
I used to work remotely.
I worry about getting stuck
in traffic, running out of gas.
I shiver when I think
how little space there is
between making a wish
and watching it come true.
Trick candles won’t blow out,
but the ice cream cake melts anyway.
I’m tired of being stared at
by fake-happy people
clapping and singing off-key—
when all I want to do
is disappear.
Can a mother crave solitude
and leave her own party?
What if she stays
but can’t put up with the noise
without snapping?
The crowd boos either way.
Pink T-shirts. GoFundMes.
Pleas for compassion.
Pleas for the death penalty.
Don’t forget
she killed her three babies—
postpartum psychosis,
postpartum depression,
failures in maternal mental health.
Watching the testimony,
I shudder when Lindsay’s sister,
a social worker like me,
solemn-faced,
takes the stand.
I once shared a cell
with a woman
who slit her daughter’s wrists.
We took turns sobbing
over our plates of cold potatoes.
Whenever I complained
about my forty-five days,
she reminded me:
At least you’ll get out
and can still make something
of your life.
I’ll never be free.
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