Ma

“The Ballad of the Stranded Child, Who lived in Exile.”

(She’d been given the sweet Heart
Of a rose. . . But bloom she never
Could, thus live she never
Would, save as a recluse
In a desert-like Garden
That, hardly, any shower
Ever drenched. . .)

Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Praised Mothers
Of the world!
Hear Ye, the story of a sweet Baby-girl
Incidentally born, one day,
Rosy-cheeked to every one’s liking,
A Cherub built to perfection
And, no doubt, worthy
Of your most precious love,
Excellent Mothers of the World! Hear Ye!

“I am the mother! Yes! I admit it! But let it
Be known that I never intended to conceive a child,
Having, by misfortune, been an orphan myself!
Some people should never have children!
They hate to be bothered by them all the time!
Is that selfishness or cold-heartedness? Maybe!
But, please, get this bundle of abomination
Away from me! I can’t stand the smell of wet pee!
Leave her by the church doorsteps
Or have someone else take care of her!” . . .
. . . “Those were my Beginnings!” . . .