While other mothers dream of bouncing boys
infants that speak or spring full-grown from wombs,
my hopes each day's awakening destroys
with monsters fresh remembered, birthing looms:
His limbs spread greedy and awkward for grip,
eyes milky, buggered, afterbirth-crusted
in lolling head with gaping clefted lip,
he leaves me ashamedly disgusted.
I'm loath to love and fear to feed him too,
despising us both, I withdraw my touch.
If lovers sleep perchance to dream, yet do
oft trembling wake in hideous nightmare's clutch,
can mothers wonder if all life must thrive
or spare her children chance of tortured lives?