Premature years of fertility
Are wasted on years of 'not meant to be',
A belly swollen but bereft of a child.
Premature years of adversity
Are wasted on years of absent comraderie,
Each wasted curve of each wasted breast.
The clock has started before the shot of the starting gun,
My time's up before I've run,
My life will end before it has truly begun.
It's like keeping pace with a small child
Who has so many years of running wild,
And as I wait I am an old woman dying
In a body of a young woman crying
Blood.
2 comments:
The repetition of "wasted" and the last three lines after "It's like running after a wild child" really get to me.
"And as I wait I am an old woman dying
In a body of a young woman crying
Blood."
You express a lot! And you communicate a lot too!
(Reminds me a lot of Kipling's Harp song of the Dane Woman).
(And not easy to think that one might be one of the "surplus women").
And if I were to suggest a title for the poem:
"Premature Years"
suggests the loss very well.
The link:
"Premature years of adversity" and "fertility" carries in well.
The biological and the social consequences are not spared.
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