The orgiastic abandon,
I had seen that face.
And, at last, perforce
The guilt, the disgrace,
It was not new to me
Though I had never seen
What the source of it
Had ultimately been.
Later I would know it
As the fulfillment of sex
But the child saw it as
Some mad kind of hex.
And if the first one along
Is like I was at the start
The child of another
There is no room in the heart
Of the adopting parent
Who sees in the bearing
Of the child of another
The source of swearing.
And even the birth child
Is not immune from abuse.
Good behavior and love
Simply has here no use.
This is the sentence
Of men and women
Who acquire offspring
When they don’t like children.
They set their minds up
To repeatedly bear them
To avoid askance looks
And any open criticism.
So they suffer and complain
About what a heavy burden
It is for them to have to
Put up with their children.
And if the first one along
Is like I was at the start
The child of another
There is no room in the heart
Of the adopting parent
Who sees in the bearing
Of the child of another
The source of swearing.
And even the birth child
Is not immune from abuse.
Good behavior and love
Simply has here no use.
If a soul-deprived mother
Never felt love of her own
She has none to spare,
No patience to condone.
The woes of these parents
Is of not having any peace,
No time of their own then,
No feeling of surcease.
It’s as if a child born
Has a few years to grow
Before turning into adult
Who will automatically know.
They will know how to parent
This sick, twisted adult one
Who doesn’t seem to like them
Or anything much they have done.
This is the sad tune of those
Who made many awful choices
But still have no use for any
Of the warning, advising voices.
Brent Kincaid
4/26/2019