Its time to sever the historical cord that binds our wombs to religion

June expresses the feelings of so many in this blog post.

Gladstone Bag

The Redemptorist

“How many children have you?” asked
The big Redemptorist.
“Six, Father.”
“The last,
When was it born?”
“Ten months ago.”
“I cannot absolve your mortal sin
Until you conceive again. Go home,
Obey your husband.”
She whimpered:
The doctor warned me…”
Shutter became
Her coffin lid. She twisted her thin hands
And left the box.
The missioner,
Red-bearded saint, had brought hell’s flame
To frighten women on retreat:
Sent on his spiritual errand,
It rolled along the village street
Until Rathfarnham was housing smoke
That sooted the Jesuits in their Castle.
“No pregnancy. You’ll die the next time,”
The Doctor had said.

Her tiredness obeyed
That Saturday night: her husband’s weight
Digging her grave So, in nine months, she
Sank in great agony on a Monday
Her children wept in the Orphanage,
Huddled together in the annexe,
While, proud of the Black Cross on his badge,

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