The Mother

    Abortions² will not let you forget.

    You remember the children you got that you did not get，

    The damp small pulps³ with a little or with no hair，

    The singers and workers that never handled the air.

    You will never neglect or beat

    Them， or silence or buy with a sweet.

    You will never wind up the sucking-thumb

    Or scuttle⁴ off ghosts that come.

    You will never leave them， controlling your luscious⁵ sigh，

    Return for a snack of them， with gobbling mother-eye.

    I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children.

    I have contracted. I have eased

    My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.

    I have said， Sweets， if I sinned， if I seized

    Your luck

    And your lives from your unfinished reach，

    If I stole your births and your names，

    Your straight baby tears and your games，

    Your stilted⁶ or lovely loves， your tumults⁷， your marriages， aches，and your deaths，

    If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths，

    Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.

    Though why should I whine⁸，

    Whine that the crime was other than mine？——

    Since anyhow you are dead.

    Or rather， or instead，

    You were never made.

    But that too， I am afraid，

    Is faulty： oh， what shall I say， how is the truth to be said？

    You were born， you had body， you died.

    It is just that you never giggled⁹ or planned or cried.

    Believe me， I loved you all.

    Believe me， I knew you， though faintly， and I loved， I loved you

    All.