Heredity

Inescapably, this is me-the diagnosis
is cause for anger at those

who brightly say we choose our destinies.

There is no store

of courage, wit or will

can save me from myself and I must face

my children, feeling like

that wicked fairy, uninvited

at the christening, bestowing on my own,

amidst murmurs of apprehension, a most

unwanted gift-that

of a blighted mind. No one

could tell me of this curse when I

was young and dreamt of children

and the graces they would bear. Later,

it seemed that a chill morning

revealed deeper layers

of truth. For my romancing

there is a price to pay-

perhaps my children's children

will pass this tollgate after me.

My grandmothers gaze down from their frames

on my wall, sadly wondering.

-Meg Campbell

I love this poem, even though it's sad.