there are bones and feathers and babies faces framed in pink

for infinity months we grow together

child and mother

but not just you and me

us, them, in the words of unnamed he, she, it, we,

the mothers and the mothered, the babies and the babied,

all the cradled new airs born of portals, eye-gazing and song

with new skin

with just-born eyes

looking for a thumb to hold

and the midwives

in their long skirts

washing their hands softly in the shadows of the palace

smiling, and birthing, and dying, every day

ecstatic

and so it goes on like this

that every womb is a womb is a womb is a womb is a womb

the russian doll of civilisation

the pink dance of the uncivilised

the apple bitten

and the one that is left to rot

there is space in this nest

for all of it

___________________

only skin