The Abortion
Somebody who should have been born is gone.
Just as the earth puckered its mouth, each bud
puffing out from its knot, I changed my shoes, and
then drove south.
Up past the Blue Mountains, where Pennsylvania
humps on endlessly, wearing, like a crayoned cat, its
green hair,
its roads sunken in like a gray washboard; where, in
truth, the ground cracks evilly', a dark socket from
which the coal has poured,
Somebody who should have been born is gone.
the grass as bristly and stout as chives, and me
wondering when the ground would break, and me
wondering how anything fragile survives;
up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man, not
Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all . . . he took the fullness
that love began.
Returning north, even the sky grew thin like a high
window looking nowhere. The road was as flat as a
sheet of tin.
Somebody who should have been born is gone.
Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without
death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this
baby that I bleed.
Anne Sexton c. 1963
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