Her five children, with one kitchen knife.
Later on, she blamed it on her husband.
Her husband, he was not empathetic
that she did everything alone.
She got up on her own every night,
washed the diapers alone,
lugged everything by herself,
reared the children and smiled,
with her nails she scratched
hardened eggs from the stone floor.
And Doctor D. was always there.
He was against their marriage,
yet for their wedding he gifted
them a house, a car, and money.
He’s lived with them from day one.
He named all the children.
He breathed on the napes of their necks
when they lay in the marital bed,
and the moment they fell asleep,
he slid in between the two of them.
He said everything was his, after all.
And indeed—no one else understands her.
They say she has completely lost her mind,
they say she bawls all by herself,
though she’s alone just the same,
she’s not alone just the same:
in his white lab coat that reeks of chlorine,
with his cold hands, his smile,
through the walls, as was his habit,
Doctor D. visits her here too.