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The Mother

5
by Gwendolyn Brooks

    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 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 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

    All.

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