A Dream of Loss

A line of mothers
inversely hanging
freshly washed on lines with bumps
and mountainous breasts
obscuring faces

nothing will save them from
the scissor lop
the excavating scoop
that plucks the unborn into holes
and packaged, consumer-friendly
dead.

I take each baby, two legs
fat-folds splintered into wedge-hooks
babe-upon-babe pass
indigent until welcomed
cling-filmed onto cooker-tops.

Billingsgate emanates
from some subterranean orifice
fish-shit bubbles to your skin
without tail or fins
even you recognize vileness.
Old, my bereavement chunters on.

Alien landscape, warping vision
is me / not me. I have impinged
the twin-soul madness of one
done with a world of wasted lives
a friend of old - who distantly
calls, calls...

The cold dawn flow
of ions threatens storms
filters dreams from this beaded brow
a real anodyne
pressing some squirming loathing
presently down.