Never has a greater wretch walked on this here land
Her wrists are bound in iron
In torn and stained attire
Never has a sadder ghost drifted on this sand
Her sallow skin translucent
Atoning for cruel abuses
Never was a sicker girl seen on an empty path
Blood flows with every sneeze
Her lungs rattle with a wheeze
Never has a woman been dealt with so much wrath
Rocks bruise her skinny legs and arms
Wicked people visit her with harm
She walks in quiet misery
She drifts from place to place
She never stays in one town long
Or shows her tear-streaked face
She walks in utter silence
She never whispers a single word
She never notices those around
Their devilish faces all a blur
She walks in quiet misery
From civilization to the wild
She will always be in misery
Remorse at losing her only child
A long time ago I was sitting at the dinner table with my friends and their grandmother. She was in town visiting from Ohio. After some drinking and merriment, she told stories about growing up in the bible belt in the '50s. She told us how she had gotten pregnant at the age of 15, out of wedlock, and lost the child 4 months later. Her family disowned her and her town turned her out. It was such a heartbreaking story that I wanted to try and express her sorrow through poetry. For years she truly thought it was her fault and it wasn't until she became a nurse in the '70s that she learned she had a genetic disorder increasing her chances of miscarriage by astronomical levels. My heart really goes out to her harrowing experience. This is for you Mirriam.
