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”