Post by Robin on Apr 15, 2006 20:55:47 GMT -8
Hmmm. A pretty straight-forward poem, even for me. In case Captain Obvious took a short vacation, it's about the pains of being infertile.
------
“Where are my children?”
She moans in the night,
And her husband, sweet ignorant man that he is,
Will tell her she never had any, and she never will.
Her womb is as barren of children as her heart is desperate for them.
Desperate is bit of an understatement.
Her heart bleeds for children, it pleads for them.
And each morning she has to remind it that it wants the impossible.
She binds her heart in the same way Ming Dynasty women bound their feet.
Slowly, day-by-day, tightening ragged strips of fabric, crushing bones,
Crushing light, crushing love.
Her husband noticed the binding at its infancy, but not the consequences.
Casually, he suggested adoption,
To which she reacted with violent rage, coming within an inch of slapping him,
Of breaking the freshly tied bonds on her heart.
Adoption is not the same, she insisted,
And she was right.
That child would be hers only by paper and ink,
And unless she got it early enough, it wouldn’t think of her as mother.
Her heart and womb wouldn’t think of her as its mother.
The womb would still be empty and barren,
The heart would still ache and bleed.
Aching and bleeding.
Such things are for high school girls with bad haircuts and bad taste in men.
She should be back in school listening to all that “emo” music that such girls listen to.
But she isn’t.
This bound, bruised, bleeding heart is cloaked in a layer of face powder,
In a dark gray, classy business suit,
In a pair of black pumps.
She walks quickly so they won’t notice her limping heartbeat.
And she takes out her rage at her husband for not doing something,
Her rage at her traitorous womb,
By screaming at her assistants, her secretary, the interns, her peers.
She remembers she once sent an intern sobbing from her office,
And she remembers wishing she could do that.
But she doesn’t.
Tears are for high school girls. She cannot afford tears.
If they were to notice her weakness, her sadness,
They would swaddle her in warmth and cheap sympathy,
In fertility recipes passed down through their family.
She doesn’t want that.
What she wants is a child, and no fertility ritual can give her that.
They won’t mind, and if they won’t, she won’t.
The only ones privy to her pain are her lonely womb, her bound heart, and her sweet, ignorant husband.
------
“Where are my children?”
She moans in the night,
And her husband, sweet ignorant man that he is,
Will tell her she never had any, and she never will.
Her womb is as barren of children as her heart is desperate for them.
Desperate is bit of an understatement.
Her heart bleeds for children, it pleads for them.
And each morning she has to remind it that it wants the impossible.
She binds her heart in the same way Ming Dynasty women bound their feet.
Slowly, day-by-day, tightening ragged strips of fabric, crushing bones,
Crushing light, crushing love.
Her husband noticed the binding at its infancy, but not the consequences.
Casually, he suggested adoption,
To which she reacted with violent rage, coming within an inch of slapping him,
Of breaking the freshly tied bonds on her heart.
Adoption is not the same, she insisted,
And she was right.
That child would be hers only by paper and ink,
And unless she got it early enough, it wouldn’t think of her as mother.
Her heart and womb wouldn’t think of her as its mother.
The womb would still be empty and barren,
The heart would still ache and bleed.
Aching and bleeding.
Such things are for high school girls with bad haircuts and bad taste in men.
She should be back in school listening to all that “emo” music that such girls listen to.
But she isn’t.
This bound, bruised, bleeding heart is cloaked in a layer of face powder,
In a dark gray, classy business suit,
In a pair of black pumps.
She walks quickly so they won’t notice her limping heartbeat.
And she takes out her rage at her husband for not doing something,
Her rage at her traitorous womb,
By screaming at her assistants, her secretary, the interns, her peers.
She remembers she once sent an intern sobbing from her office,
And she remembers wishing she could do that.
But she doesn’t.
Tears are for high school girls. She cannot afford tears.
If they were to notice her weakness, her sadness,
They would swaddle her in warmth and cheap sympathy,
In fertility recipes passed down through their family.
She doesn’t want that.
What she wants is a child, and no fertility ritual can give her that.
They won’t mind, and if they won’t, she won’t.
The only ones privy to her pain are her lonely womb, her bound heart, and her sweet, ignorant husband.