again. Are you not mother? That
is the question that must be posed
and not just to those who
work the world with their pants
less stuffed, with their arms
held aloft when not wrapped
round the chores and the children
and, yes, round the big boys too, who sooner
or later will come home crying
about having to do what they had to do.
But yes, also Sirs, same question to you.
It’s not just the body that moulds
and anyhow the earth that births the him
and the her of it shall, in its time
— own and good — make a meal
of our segments, slurp us all up.
And, we presume, be disappeared
in her turn. Never fear. Know
that which lives as a question
shall be, is all
that can ever remain: how to birth?
And how to be born
again? And again. And