The Mother

Abortions will not let you forget. 
You remember the children you got that you did not get, 
The damp small pulps 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 scuttle off ghosts that come. 
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious 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 
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 stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, 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 whine, 
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 giggled or planned or cried. 

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

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