Are not born from me
They were stolen
From my treacherous body
My blood poured out
And I in vain
Sought to hold them there
I cried bitter, angry tears
8 years and ten months
My barren, hateful womb
Betrayed me, thus.
Each horrifying realisation that
This mocking labour
Does wrack me ever with fruitless pain.
My children died
No contrived heap of earth
Acknowledges their passing.
The only tombstone lies cold within me.
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Comments about this poem (MyChildren by Rae Edson )
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