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