No sense marks this lament of gnawing grief.
Though knowing that in no way brings relief.
And foolish even more, guilt that assails
As accusation swells the keening wails.
I’ve borne six children, couldn’t handle more,
But still child seven, never now to live
Through tubes tied, rises to accuse me for
An act it is unable to forgive.
This child, I wonder what it would have been?
Boy or girl? Studious or athletic? And
To which side of the family would it lean
Had I demured and nature had free hand?
It’s seed’s still there but life is now denied
As though hand later scraped it from the womb.
And it was on my actions its hopes died.
This stone within me rests upon its tomb.