I do not sculpt the creases
of your heart, hidden and fertile,
Nor tame the dusky jungles
of your irises, though you may worship
me in broken temples there.

I do not rear, cannot coddle
or suture with primordial lips.
A cradle becomes an empty bed,
a blank patch of nightsky, coal dark
and gears gone quiet.

I am womb in copper-wire, imperfect
design sewn in light, hammered flawless
in protean crucibles
when time whimpered small.

I am clock wheels heat-cycled
in mitochondria, around engines
breathed alive, I am heat-static
sentience all aflame in thumbprint
galaxies, coiled foetal in starlight.

I am mother.
You, my image.

<< Back

Euphemism Campus Box 4240 Illinois State University, Normal, IL 61790-4240