I am not a
poet,
no
artist, me -
I just …
I
Write.
I write for the
guilty pleasure
it gives, for the
furtive delight of fingers sliding
over keys, the first spreading stain
on
pristine white.
I write for the
ultimate
birth of my babies.
I deliver them,
some in long and painful
labour, others
in swift
oblivion.
I pause, for a while, like any mother
to
admire their
beauty,
their clear,
prodigious intelligence.
I marvel, smugly, at the
miracle
I have produced.
It doesn’t last. When I glance
again each has grown
imperfect. This one needs
discipline,
its many faults need
stern schooling,
while that one needs
tender encouragement
to
shine.
Amongst the brood,
Siamese twins,
together, halting and
deformed -
crying out for
separation. I wield
the knife and free them.
I herd them, chide them,
nurse them all, (Except for that
one dark
changeling, glowering.
Surely it can’t be one of mine?
Tuck it away, quickly, out
of sight – what would the
neighbours say?).
And then, I let them go. Let them
struggle alone through
approbation or
despite; Mother is engaged in a
new
seduction, deflowering another
virgin page.
Smiling,
I write.