But I don’t have the urge to push.
When a woman gives birth the body panics.
Every time I let you go, I understand the urgent response.
It always starts with my calcified uterus refusing to shove the memories from their
inside me is where things come to permanently plant themselves.
I’ve never been good at picking trees, or ripping savage flowers like you
from my unwanted gardens;
the patches of dirty growth.
Fruit here is addictive, and hasn’t sprouted any differently in ten years.
for ten years you’ve blossomed, shaken from your leaves, fallen onto my head ended up in my mouth.
Have you no shame Moon Child?
Have I no reserve, no decorum, no self control, no desire to prevent
ending up with my legs in icy steel stirrups for weeks at a time
trying to shove out the head of the inhuman.
The feet of the daydream. The tiny fingers of the lust. The butt of the thirst.
The whole little bodies I’ve cooked up that look like you.
The little devils.