The blastula blisters like the eye of a bee,
And monstrous by the blood,
Affixed to the vine and soul of her mother.
Does she swell as the rutting oil, does she thrust beneath the earth?
Has she gathered her sweet pus
And fed her brood?
(For she knows the gentle magic to twist the carbon in.)
She unravels like a bat, limbs reaching out of its ink-drop form:
Four fat caterpillars or roosting anemones
Desperate for the self-made spark of the world.
The tuneless tuba of her heart
The itch of the nerves
The oily down and the lingering tide of this womb-bound sea—
All to drop like a walrus
Fisted through a faucet,
And the trek like life in the beginning, when Eve suspected no end.
She slips, she plummets, she demands the breath
To announce in that soon lost neonatal tongue:
“I am here! I am here! I am here!”
And so you are, my darling girl.