Spring 1951 • Vol. XIII No. 2 Poetry |

Palermo, Mother’s Day, 1943

Among those who promised us our honors, Someone said we'd killed a hundred each; And since our knowledge of events was vague, We used the digits in our dim additions: Sometimes I deck zeroes out in lashes To make crude, comic eyes that will not cry. Hell's a harbor for the guilty; but Were we not innocent of the spectacle In our high and ornamental boxes? There is no need to say we bluntly murdered; I memorized the scene in my crossed glasses: I swear there were not even marionettes. I could fear the image of a planting; Yet we knew no sense of sowing (though our seeds Were miracles that rooted, boled, and bloomed, Fertilized and fruited in a flash) For we were timorously tending other ground, Where rude berries brambled gratuitously. But at length the sound of women's voices Will fracture all the sealed rooms of the air, And all the little rooms that time has bricked Against my knowledge of that soiled city Will suddenly sympathize with the vibrations Of d

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Mother and Child

By Helen Forman

Among those who promised us our honors, Someone said we'd killed a hundred each; And since our knowledge of events was vague, We used the digits in our dim additions: […]

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