Death did not come to my mother
Like an old friend.
She was a mother, and she must
Conceive him. Up and down the bed she fought crying
Help me, but death
Was a slow child
Heavy. (Josephine Miles)

Death did not come to my mother Like an old friend. She was a mother, and she must Conceive him. Up and down the bed she fought crying Help me, but death Was a slow child Heavy.

Josephine Miles

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bed child cry death fight friend heavy help mother slow

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