Awakening Wombs

Winter babies are carried in small wombs over stark ground, they have eyes and mouths by now, almost human paws. The snuffle of small rodents awakens yet more unborn. Adults still cry in motherless wombs, struggling to be delivered from a million cyclic still-births. A new dawn, like a stripper, takes off her long black gloves, arrives in white thighs, remembers that she also is a working mother, the labor of the world her endless tryst.