(a) 

Thus begins my ode of inveigh–

My child, ne’er will we play!

Ne’er will I kiss a tender face, looking into eyes gray,

Ne’er will there ever be an hour to mark a birthday;

Ye piles of my toys left to decay.

(e) 

My child! I know thou must hate me.

Doomed to never be a baby.

Grounded, earth waiting to see seed;

Fertilization would be your guarantee

And to me the most horrific feat.

(i)

Each time I look to the sky

I wonder, would it have been stars or clouds that caught thine eye?

Would it have been women, with curls piled high–

Or working men, caring lofts of ply;

How would my yute have passed their time?

(o) 

Now your soul resides in its waiting room, 

And in my nightmares I am there with you.

I can feel thee trembling within my womb,

Phantom kicks in a plea to be exhumed

From the cavity you know is only a tomb.

(u)

In my years I shall be labeled a shrew

As I refuse to give birth to one like you.

Because of my denial of Eve’s similar virtue 

They will look down upon me from the pew,

And see my duty as a woman being put to no use. 

*And sometimes (they ask me) Y.