Deidre, Mother of Sons

Deirdre, Mother of Sons
by Kaylin Kaupish

“All mothers are slightly insane.” – Catcher in the Rye

I was born into a family meant to die out
All of the daughters, told by their mothers,
Do not have children.
But the daughter would become women
And eventually become mothers.
So it was a family meant to die out,
But curse to go on forever.
Christ, that sounds even worse.

Matthew had been the worst.
We watched him loose his brain strands
Give into the voices in his head
And disappear behind a veil of cigarette smoke
Until mother had to send him away
To the land of barred windows
I’m the only one left to visit him
Not that mother’s dead
I guess a part of him knows I’m there
The sister who will share a cigarette with him

Henry had been saved.
Mother hid him in her house
Of gold, antique jewelry
And purple, pleated coats
Fuck, after Matthew, can you blame her?
But now Henry won’t come out
Even though mother’s dead
I guess you could call that being saved.

Deirdre was the last hope.
She could end the line, stay the madness
Stop cold the delusions that got passed down
From generation to generation
Like a cursed inheritance.

I’m Deirdre, and my mother told me to never have children.
So we’d die out.
Our glitch in the evolutionary process
Would be over and forgotten.
The family born to die out;
It had struggled so hard to keep afloat.
Thrashing, fighting, and gasping for air.
Shit, we always were a stubborn lot.
But the daughter kept becoming women,
The women kept wanting sons,
The sons kept being born.
And the sons kept running rampant and going down,
And taking the others down,
In no blaze of glory,
But a slump that you couldn’t get out of.

Deirdre, don’t have children.

But I was never one to do something I didn’t want to do.
So why be somebody who doesn’t do what I want to do?
I always wanted a little boy with dark, curly hair.

I’ve decided this evolutionary glitch isn’t dying out.
I’ve decided this is as much part of human history as your fancy sanity.
Who said those in their right mind get to write the fucking history books?
Who said we are a blot on humanity’s flawless face?
It wasn’t that flawless to begin with.

So I’ll have my little boy with dark, curly hair.
And I’ll name him

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