I'm appalled at myself.  
How could I think 
such a thing,  
especially confronted 
with her presence. 
                  But I did.  
  
Luckily later,  
thinking about 
degrees of intelligence 
I recognised 
how stupid I'd been. 
                  But I had thought it.  
  
With other disabled 
people I've met 
the mind's life 
is not an absence:  
it's different, but vital. 
                  Not here, not her.  
  
I sensed a vacancy,  
tinged with suffering:  
a mind that knew 
something was wrong 
with its self and its body. 
                  . . . No, not "knew". 
  
A mind only just 
aware of itself 
cannot be said 
to "know" - it sensed,  
somehow, its failure. 
                  She sensed she suffered.  
  
But though abortion 
on diagnosis 
seems an appalling 
suggestion to make,  
is compassion any better. . . 
                  more appropriate?  
  
Most of my best 
disabled friends 
love the life 
they've got - a physical 
and socio-political struggle, 
                  but fun.  
  
Her terrible void. . .  
her uncomprehending dread. . .  
They don't share it.  
  
                  They don't need compassion.  
  
                  She can't use it.