-Elizabeth Brewster
The idiot with his slobbering mouth, half shoved,
Half led by his younger brother, slowly moved
Across my childhood's April. Stammering,
He hadned me the violets of spring,
And wished to please; but fright so sped my fet,
A timid child intolerant of the strange,
I dropped the flowers and ran, out of the range
Of slobber on petals blue and delicate.
Out of his range, in the white and wooden church,
I prayed, and felt my heart still work
Like churning butter. Why should an idiot
Be to the blossom like the blossom's rot?
My bowels turned that the ugly should be human,
That a boy should be like a white, unhealthy grub
Sliming the violets, yet be flesh and blood
And born to be a man from flesh of woman.