Made to weather the storm - matrimonial babies
Are hurled like twigs for months,
Until her sphincter dies and splits into life
Matrimonial splinters, reminding her
A matron is worth her price -
The recycled trick holds up the fort
Though it may or may not, mend or blend
The bed and its mannequins
Cracked to the pod.
I sit here with four of your eyes
They stare at what's wrong
The smaller's finger tractions welcome mine
The other will not call me mum.
These are my only concerns
The rest translucent under
So you want a third in May
Next year -
From the woman who believed you twice
From womb, then wick, she smells it's now
Incense you want.
The sunny blooms you bring home -
I have decided - will pale in plight.
Think of rage writhing
Into the air
Coming down to reality
And blinding her eyes to four more she knows
Will open yours.