‘A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world’. (John 16:21)
If you plant a frangipani branch,
the stub will take root and grow in the
dry dust of memory, singing down
bones of an inevitable death.
Light follows shadow
as a silver fish scythes the sea,
refusing the net.
The sperm finds the egg.
to render another human, whole,
but then his small mouth plucks your breast,
no sweeter pleasure, this joy after pain.
