The Cord I never felt it at the time -- perhaps I believed that it still existed at different stages in my life. It tugged gently to and fro, yet safely back it came. Later, I felt the deep-piercing cut severing at my womb-like heart, tears like blood flowing, dripping, until at last they slowly ceased. Like a wound, it began to heal, yet left behind a melancholic scar that changed the once-perfected state of the umbilical cord before the cut of my children leaving home.
Sylvia McCutcheon's Questions:
Is this poem very sombre even depressing and morbid?
Do the lines seem to be united in pairs?