The Mote
She appears again
nursing a child.
Her body once leaked into my mind
as we passed on a street.
desires nurse children
imagined into secret.
One small image
can speak like an adult.
It leans over her arm.
“If you keep breathing life
into a lust,” it says,
“it grows, a plasmid body.”
I remember her mother:
A brief conversation
that I took home to undress.
The child moves close to my ear.
“Don’t worry daddy,” she says
“my crippled condition
cannot be seen
behind your open eyes”
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