I held him first when he was six weeks old And he has lived twelve years within my heart, I thought it would be simple then to mold Him with the skill that is a mother's art. Sometimes our bond is torn with hurt surprise, Two beings, worlds apart, not reconciled In thought or flesh. I plumb this stranger's eyes And try to fathom my adopted child. The travail of most women ends at birth But mine continues, deluged with a stream Of alien blood. Unwilling to unearth The fact of records that might mar my dream I labor in the dark -- When I have done I shall have borne triumphantly a son. |