There are times
I miss holding babies,
touching the fleeting moments
of purity
and milk mouths.

There are times
I long for the womb,
to go back swimming
so I can be reborn
once more.

I am feeling ancient,
thousands of millenniums old
a speck of dust
carrying triple its weight
in my belly.

There are times,
my soul contracts,
breaking water almost,
becoming ready
for an arrival.

Tell me, how long
is the gestation of heartache?
How many embroys
must die before the soul wakes,
spitting an infant?

There are times
I miss tiny dimpled hands
a wink of a moment's reminder
of what was aborted
without my consent.

The cradle rocks
ever so gently in the corner
as my hands weave pink sweaters.
In the mist of the silky rain
I wait to give birth again.

v.k