Yesterday’s post reminded me of a conversation I had with a young lady in my high school classes my second year of teaching (at a local Christian school). She declared that she didn’t ever want to have children because it would keep her from becoming who she really was. I wrote this poem after that conversation. It’s obviously not about people who can’t have children — that’s from God — but about those who can but refuse, for selfish reasons.
Of Her Who Desired No Children
Before my years could multiply,
I chose to make their center me;
I saw I might be hindered by
My own fertility.
I felt the rise within me and
I knew I was a spring, and yet
I wished to feel no demand
From what I might beget.
I stopped the flow; I’d be a spring
Without it. Now I weep because
I didn’t know I killed the thing
That made me what I was.
I cannot, now my years have fled,
Say without tears, to any man,
That I have been a riverbed|
Where water never ran.
A fountain, lying deep in dust;
A channel by no current laved;
A ground that gives no harvest, just
The barrenness I’d craved.
For years I kept me blind, nor knew
What I had missed, or (what was worse)
That I had fallen victim to
My own eternal curse.
–Wes Callihan
May 1986
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