She plods into my waiting arms like
an open petal hungers for the bees.
Gummy and soft. A concerted coos,
clucks, and bubbles. Eloquent fruit of
my loins. Instrument of my instincts.
Lullabies for my hunger. Hair of black
ink curls into the silver belly of my story
telling. Sucking her tiny thumb like a
blind girl divines life from the mingle of
sweet saliva upon the finger’s grooves.
Rounded knees nudge deep where my
fatness jostles. Fast to dream. She is a
quiet tapestry cloaked in flesh.
finger poises above that button-nose where
a sliver of crusted mucus thrusting out
from the shadow, cradling threads of
the afternoon sun. Sooty lashes curtain
the amber lake, and upon its water lays
the light of the world. Sailing still a finger
to her primrose breaths that cling to the
nether bone, they are in rhythm with my
hours, days, years and lifetimes unfolding
beyond, debris will fall upon ruins. When
hollowness will purge all tenderness along
with memories. Yet I shall belt my body on
the back of sorrow then plunge beneath where
her parting sleeps. Into the living sea of our
holding. Like a dearest breath, well-loved,
in my motherly hands.