Birthing/deathlings/in-between
when you are the mother you must remember not to send a facebook message
after ten pm in case the child is
horizontal
with a consort and the phone installed with
messenger goes beep or chirrup
bringing on the deep red face you will not want to speak with
come the morn
when you are the mother you must stand in
the hazy middle distance to
reflect what that substance that seems so perfectly
moreish and the ideal treat sentinel from a long lost world
will do to them should it by some dumb luck
lay you waste for good
when you are the mother the mother you will
stay
they say you might believe it but it slips away
as fast as the static builds up on
nylon undies
the desire to be autonomous anonomous
the windmill by
the zeiderzee
running up a loch in Scotland
mother is as mother be’s
when
I said that he had died my mother said to
me
“what is it with your friends”
of elegant proportions
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