Jane, how could you?
After his books burned in the fire and
he left you to supply the miners
Did you feel abandoned?
The railroad money flowed
and you were a fine hostess, my dear.
But the universe would not abide
calling back the only thing you ever loved.
Jane, your suspicions had good cause.
Born on 11:11,
a fortress of arches and corbels
fed with your mother’s milk
nursed into existence.
You refused to lose another child.
Your mother’s gaze left with nothing to caress
save the sun-drenched marble;
a golden facade to hide your pain.
Loving those golden doors
with an unwavering tenacity;
clutching your only offspring
close to your breast.
Mere feathers in an empty nest.
Under patriarchal pressure
from the east,
vowing to never be
a second Vassar,
weak and emasculated.
We are a castle of ivy, you cried,
not an orchard in bloom.
A seed planted in name of your son-
grown in his memory-
should never bear such fertile fruit.
Each earthy golden pear
an affront to his manhood.
Jane, you traitor!
Susan B could never look you in the eye again.
That such an edict
Should come through a woman!
To plant a garden of narcissus
where daffodils should grow.
Yet sacrifice
would not save you.
A sip at 11:11,
soft sand,
spring water,
silence.
A tropical whitewash.
Now she stands near her men,
a little below and off to the side,
subservient to eternity.
Sweet Jane,
would things have changed
if you had borne a girl?
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 5:42 PM UTC
Jane, how could you?
After his books burned in the fire and
he left you to supply the miners
Did you feel abandoned?
The railroad money flowed
and you were a fine hostess, my dear.
But the universe would not abide
calling back the only thing you ever loved.
Jane, your suspicions had good cause.
Born on 11:11,
a fortress of arches and corbels
fed with your mother’s milk
nursed into existence.
You refused to lose another child.
Your mother’s gaze left with nothing to caress
save the sun-drenched marble;
a golden facade to hide your pain.
Loving those golden doors
with an unwavering tenacity;
clutching your only offspring
close to your breast.
Mere feathers in an empty nest.
Under patriarchal pressure
from the east,
vowing to never be
a second Vassar,
weak and emasculated.
We are a castle of ivy, you cried,
not an orchard in bloom.
A seed planted in name of your son-
grown in his memory-
should never bear such fertile fruit.
Each earthy golden pear
an affront to his manhood.
Jane, you traitor!
Susan B could never look you in the eye again.
That such an edict
Should come through a woman!
To plant a garden of narcissus
where daffodils should grow.
Yet sacrifice
would not save you.
A sip at 11:11,
soft sand,
spring water,
silence.
A tropical whitewash.
Now she stands near her men,
a little below and off to the side,
subservient to eternity.
Sweet Jane,
would things have changed
if you had borne a girl?
Written upon discovering that Jane Stanford limited the number of women admitted to Stanford, an edict that would remain in place until the 1930's
https://medium.com/stanford-magazine/why-jane-stanford-limited-womens-enrollment-to-500-85355b8aa731
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