Poetry, motherhood and beyond.
Beak aloft in preparation for ascension // Soon, I'll be soaring high above the vastness // Wait. // There they are // Masses of them // Eyes downcast, as if frightened // Gullible - trapped, perhaps - in their ways. // The vastness is to them unknown.
I dream my stories. They are not mine. Stories make up the reward for me paying attention. I know that deep down, beyond the layers, no story is mine to keep. They are mine to share, so that they might be yours.
I am not these hands, these wiry fingers, these brittle, yellowing nails. I am not this bird-like body, this hollowness, this fierce resistance to movement.
On Mama's Mind 