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.
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