The shadow-children’s birthing partner cracks under the strain
It’s an accomplishment, this slipping through the eye
of a blade of glass, a grass pane crack,
down a ginnel, past a church slime wall
without looking up towards tonight’s moon
which is always full and extra weight
deems you earthbound, your white moon
belly with its claw-marks, splashes and the cross
hatch lightning which pushed its way though a scald,
your scars that, for once, are not related to birthing,
ageing and its flabrubber reddening but to the dropped
mug of boiling herbal tea which you panted
your way through via paracetemol and a scream
pulling wool from seared skin.
Lovely light glimmering attention-seeking thing,
dimmed to sullen blotch, no, you lack the finesse
of shadow children in your tied-down in not a good
way negative bouyancy; when you watch
one or two of them pretending to embody
the know-how of shudder or dance, fix them
with a dart point stare to a floorboard, or just spill them
