Deep breath out, then in
Belly, weighed down
Down by stories
Of children borne
Or not born

Then moments of quiet
Appear from the depths
Of mother’s careful hand
Her hand, cupped, cradling
Like a trembling moth

The truth held
Hard as stones
In the centre,
Below the ribs,
Caged, calcifying flesh.


© WhatHabit Co. and Words For Leaving, 2010 to 2015