Children mature

the way multitudes desire,

turning from proud stones

to sand.

The machines take turns

walking me.

I’ve been ill with

wicker baskets for weeks.

Between my legs,

unzipped zipper.

Epiphany window.

When I was pregnant,

I lived wretched

as a butterfly in glass.

After birth,

I became a flower.

My stone

makes my reliquary

when she naps.

Far away,




I will hide her in

the hungry mountains.

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