Arlene Corwin Poetry

Daughter (And Son)

I’m so sad for the mother

That never became what she ought as a woman:

A person to gladden,

Never become happy creature,

All features of zest an alloy.

So sad. I don’t fully tumble to why:

Is it that she will die, the future a fly by?

A missed-out-on chance-on-this-planet for joy?

That some of her blood runs inside of my veins,

And gene-derived thoughts in my brain

Are connected to some of her pains?

Of unfulfilled lovelies and lonelies, there’s one

Who collects darkest thought.

Is there something that I haven’t done

That I ought?

Am I doing the least: daughter/beast?

How much mother’s keeper is daughter (and son)?

©Daughter (And Son) 98.1.1

Circling Round Woman; Love Relationships; Pure Nakedness; Mother Book;

Arlene Corwin