I breathed, and with my breath
gave birth, again and again and again.
My lungs housed planets
which flew from my lips
to rest in a space not too far from the nest
of infinity-wide hips.
I perfumed myself with the stardust
that lay about my shelves,
while my eyes wandered to the children
who kept their quiet and took their time
to build their lives away from mine.
Nine children: four boys, four girls-
One lonely in-between, the closest to my breast,
chilled by the distance from its father's heart.
My third child, of the cleanest hue
leapt bounds ahead the others, covered
white, green and blue.
If the others are jealous, they never say so
for their silence is their virtue,
their mystery their status.
But, despite her siblings' monarchy glamour,
it was my third baby, who became a mother.
I paint my nails with the polish given
as gifts from my un-answering offspring.
They throw me pieces of their atmosphere
to wear around my neck,
and I accept all these gifts with gratitude,
glad they exercise respect.
My third child sends me probes, satellites,
and sends rocket ships to her uncle.
Her children thrive and mine her body,
and she sits daintily, between her sister and her brother,
allowing them to farm her so; her duty as a mother.
As I age, the wrinkles of my skin deepen, and
occasionally, something far away collapses.
I find I age better than their father; better than
all the fathers that came ahead.
I have always outlasted them.
I will never lie upon a deathbed.
It is my duty as their mother to watch
as my babies eventually perish.
Aged well, aged strong, dramatic endings.
But such is life, and such am I, and I am always law-
and after death comes life again, multitudes and more.
spacey.
