Trish
This poem is a reflection on my mother's and my story, and the shame attached to, in her case having a child and in mine not doing so.
1950s Ireland. Judge’s daughter and a married man. Pregnancy.
Shame.
England for discreet birth and surrender.
Redhead babe for family of redheads. No!
Unmarried motherhood.
Shame.
Cover story. Wedding ring.
Eleven. Story blown. Curiosity killed.
Confusion. Sympathy. Admiration. Anger.
Bastards can’t marry said Sister Cecily.
Shame.
Twenty. That’s the answer. Find a man. Marriage, children, normal family?
Opportunity.
Thirty. Clock ticking. Something’s not right. Where’s the love? Sadness.
Divorce. Envy. Panic.
Shame.
Forty-three. Mother dies. New man. Let’s grow old together. New job. Move to the country.
Pregnancy. Elation.
Not the man’s plan.
Too late. Too old. Think of the risk. The childcare. The money. What will my ex think?Might stop me seeing my daughter. How do I know its mine?
Deflation. Pain. Confusion. Fear. Panic.
Shame.
Termination.
Shame.
Loss. Grief. Isolation. Loneliness.
Have you got children?
Shame.
Make the best of it. Carry on.
Seventy. Comfortable.
Have you got grandchildren?
Shame.
Shame.
