“Gardens Grow” by Eileen James

Mother makes children on creased sheets
as cotton crisps
against her moist back.
Moon leans on the window sill,
a lazy on-looker, like a nasty uncle
who always want you to sit on his lap.

Mothers have children
from the growing of wombs
tangled in wet pulses.
No science could ever dissect apart
what holds them together.
That which impulses a seed to plunge
into sweet black soil, tear up and out
to feel sun, to enter sky,
crying.

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