Backspace

I already understand that children grow inside two blinks, as quickly as the novel Mayfly comes to the surface to die. I'm pining for those first days again, of edentate smiles, milestones to fund future independence. Pineapple-sized hearts I cradled; lulled, exchanged dank nappies for dry; ferried on uncrossed seas, your armada. Smoothed rough waters as if by divine speech because mothers can. I was thinking that I could always be your oxygen. I let you walk through me, under, right over. The rocking horse brought for my bromelain angels winged you away - this blasted Pegasus ... I miss you now. How you rode away, ephemera of innocence! So, what then? Me, fumbling wild in the backspace you left. Your flabbergasting key smash to freedom broke our finespun home, you left me to talk to your father, Child, to renegotiate the bonds; reconstruct ancient code, deleted excess text - obfuscating precision and knowing - the tribal tongue of lovers unlearned, forgotten; escaped alongside discarded baby bath suds, strewn puddles of rubber duckies, tired breasts suckled by fresh management.