The Mote

She appears nursing a child. Her body leaks into my mind on a busy street. Desire nurses the imagined into secrecy. A dark bed hides dark hungers. One small image attached to her attractive form speaks. It leans over her arm... “If you keep breathing life into a lust,” it says, “desire grows a plasmid body.” I create again its mother, her enticing smile. That sexual magnetism I took home to undress. The ghostly infant moves close to my mind. “Don’t worry,” it says, “my crippled condition cannot be seen behind wide open eyes.”