On almost deciding that it's too bad prefrontal lobotomies are out of style especially for mothers
My God, I think, what am I doing bringing kids into this world
of slicks where happy families feast
on breakfast candy, poison milk
and flesh of corpses, vitamin enriched,
where Gramps, Mom, Dad and Sis and Junior reach orgasmic bliss
by contemplating latest models:
where hebephrenic TV clowns swill endless glop that's good for you
and if you don't get to it fast enough
when Bugs and Donald momentarily
are finished with their sadomasochistic fun
you get a newscaster, brisk, cheerfully detached
from fall-out figures,
or a reassuring scientist,
or a calm and prayerful leader speaking of our way of life and of the
mass death necessary to defend it:
and where Mental Health says talk it over with a friend or neighbor
and if necessary seek professional advice....
But when, after the slow flash and warmth of love I leave your arms
to change the boy
and carry the wet diaper dreamily through the familiar dark,
the world is quieted and sensible, and I am quite content to have
brought children into it
and even quite content to think of bringing more.
from The Realist, 1960
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