Margaret Sanger Enters into Hell
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
cutting to fragments. A heartless astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true, though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence, lust’s bitter fruit—
oh the thought: changing Sin into mere inconvenience . . .
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her own sex ought to view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives she would flush down the drain
she would liberate Death—and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century
Planning, quite calmly, to cleanse certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
dilation and curettage, women’s autonomy
viable fetus, procedure, a suction
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the damned and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen . . .
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
CONNECT/HOOK 
That was lovely and well-done. My only objection is that the babies she aborted or caused to be aborted will not spend an instant in hell with her. Instead, they mock her from the arms of their angels in heaven! And so shall it ever be.
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Yes – I thought about that.
The reader can picture the whole thing as infernal torment rather than actual souls of aborted children meeting her.
In the last stanza I mean “bear” as in bear the burden of her sin.
Thanks for connecting. Visit anytime.
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