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.
No, to the big boys too, those who sooner
or later come home crying over having
to do what they had to do. Yes Sirs,
also: 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 all shall,
in its time — own and good — make
a meal of our segments, slurp us up.
And, we presume, be disappeared in her turn.
Never fear. Know the question is all
that remains: how to birth? And how to be
born? Again? And again? And
For me, a poem is a key, unlocking a moment in time and revealing the creative depths that every moment holds. Poetry brings us to creative presence.