(Reading Alana Newman* for the First Time during March for Life Week)
Down in the darkness of death
they have haunted me. But
the living and walking haunt me, too—
the smaller army, marching out
from technocracy’s cruel forges,
whose parade, behind the legions
risen from the abortuary trash-heaps,
will dazzle the eyes of so many
New York Times editors
on the Day of Glory:
The Donor Babies.
Grown now. YouTubing their honest agonies.
Alive. Well. Married. Mothers and fathers, too.
But: abandoned and cut-off in the
origin. O Father Where Art Thou?
I say haunts me because: This is The Cry.
The Cry of the fallen, mewling offspring
of Cain, walled-out by the weakness of man
from cloistral order and the smell of restful eventide.
With every passing year, he dwells in me more.
His buttoned cuffs and his rides around town
are my inheritance.
But he is dead, and justly so, by the debt of Adam.
No Hamlet’s task impends upon me.
The turf of his grave grows peaceful grass.
So long, for now. You were tired anyway.
The song I sing him is my life,
and the duty I bear: to love my town and its people
like he did, smiling at black and white.
God, give me the strength to do the man proud,
for all his faults…
But father known yields
to Father unknown.
We know no veritable Patria
in this clay.
–Yes, I kiss my natal earth
and count the generations back;
known to me: my people.
A blessing, indeed, to know the tree, the roots, yes—
But the whole great tree of human flesh cannot bear
the weight of even one soul, unique and new.
Semen and ovum begetting cannot answer The Cry.
We all, one great army, with the Donor-Conceived
cry. The Cry, to the limpid sky.