It’s worse for her than it is for me—
birthing the twins near killed her.
So I took up my basket and snatched up the twins. One held by hand,
the other on my hip,
We set off for the market.
It wasn’t easy.
The twin on the ground
grabbed the fish from my basket
and threw it. It landed
by the water trough, and I had to wade through the mud to get it back.
The twin on my hip
seemed quiet enough—
till he started to bellow.
I smelled something rank,
and I felt it,
leaking down my dress.
I couldn’t staunch him—
my hands were full.
That’s when I saw her,
Isobel, the lord’s daughter,
dressed in blue.
Her hair was combed, sleek as an otter. Her veil was snow white.
She had a servant
to carry her basket,
so her hands were free
to pinch up her skirt,
and pick her way through the muck,
daintily, daintily.
Her lips were curved,
like the smile of a cat,
and something got into me—
maybe ’twas the devil.
I let go of the twin,
picked up a handful of
dung, filth, God-knows-what
and let fly.
Bull’s-eye. But I didn’t enjoy it—
not for more ’n a moment.
Not after I saw her face.
She hadn’t done anything to me,
and the smutch of the mud
against her blue gown—
the prettiest dress I ever saw.
I ruined it.
The boys in Shamble Lane2 laughed.
They won’t tell on me. They’re my friends. I saw her eyes pass over me
and rest on them. She thought they did it. I ought to have said—
something—I’m sorry,
’twas my doing—
but my little brother
picked up something foul
and mashed it in his mouth.
By the time I got to him,
pried open his jaws,
fished it out,
and bellowed, “No!”
she’d plucked up her skirts to go.
Her back was straight as a knife,
her head held proud, poor girl.
I was sorry,
almost to weeping.
On the way home
I went to church.
I dragged the twins before the crucifix
and knelt down, trying to pray
and keep hold at the same time.
It wasn’t easy. I prayed
that God would forgive me—
that the muck would come out of her dress, that my stepmother wouldn’t die.
It made me think <—- Stanza 12
how all women are the same—
silk or sackcloth, all the same.
There’s always babies to be born
and suckled and wiped,
and worried over.
Isobel, the lord’s daughter,
will have to be married,
and squat in the straw,
and scream with the pain
and pray for her life
same as me.
And thinking of that,
I added one more prayer—
sweet Jesus, come Christmas,
don’t let it be twins.
what is the theme of this poem?