When we meet for coffee
she tells me
how her children tap into her like
beautiful leeches, hungry
for her care; clinging amoebic bodies
from the rock-pool of her womb
drinking her until she pales,
becomes anaemic of thought, artless.
Back home, I make poems on
in the moon-space of solitude,
this alternative galaxy aeons away
from known life, and think of her
sending children into the world
fired with her blood.
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