To the midwife that longs for a child of her own:


sit in clay till secretions come

mix with sand and spit, churn

like butter

like a handmaiden

till solids form

and form takes shape

and shape is a child

a child of clay


take the clay child and mold into your likeness

into something you like

into something like you

but different


take the clay child and cover it with sand

dry as bone

bone of your (rib) cage

powder from g-d manna

an oatmeal powder both succulent and crunchy


do you have the child in mind yet?

do you see in your (mind’s) eye yet?

do you love the child (yet)?

are your passions kaleidoscopic yet? 

how many colors do you see? 

can you count one two three?

or are you thinking three dimensionally? 

what is the first word, the first step, the first rollover, the first pop, the first lesson, the first book, the first application, the first date, the first kiss?




and when will you learn that 

it is you

it was always you

and you can simply get up

from the clay 

and secretions

till an oceanic wall comes

to clarify

and wipe clean

the spittle and oatmeal paste

in whichwitch you've been mired 


free from longing, you press into your third eye

and care for the child you’ve always been

till new blood flows

and forms a tower

of spun gold

and iron


let it take shape

the tower

it will form

high into the sky


and soft


lightning strikes


magic creatures leap from the tower


what do they look like?


-mz. jones