WAS MADE TO CARE.

A GIRL'S MEMORY OF HER STRICT MOTHER.

Don’t care was made to
Care, Mother said, when
You had unleashed like

Disobedient dogs, the
Words, don’t care. The
Words, don’t care, still

Hung there in the air.  
Don’t care was made to
Care, Mother repeated,

And you knew she was
Right, there would be no
Waiting until your father

Got home, there’d be no
Point; he’d only chide if
He needed to, if Mother

Nagged; he’d never hit or
Do worse than tell you off
If his peace was disturbed.

No, it was she, Mother who
Did that physical side of
Things, brought to bare the

Hitting side of matters, the
Making care of don’t care.
And you, Matilda, will care,

She’d say, taking you by the
Arm, off and away, to the
Room, where she’d make you

Wait, like some insect caught
In a spider’s web waiting to
Be eaten, but you looking up

At the ceiling or round dingy
Walls waiting to be beaten.
Don’t care was made to care,

Your mother’s words echo
Along the dark passages of
Time where many little girls

Like you were punished for
The words, don’t care, crime.