She is the milk from my water
and she never leaves me,
not even when I faulter.
She is the pixie in my maiden,
my forest from the garden.
She is the in-between
of my palm and my breast,
and the elevator of roots,
when they begin to harden.
She is my mother,
She is my milk,
She is my moth..
...And how completely we seem to carry our flame.
x
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