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   ‐inspired by the Remedios Varo painting,To Be Reborn
by Melissa Studdard

There's no mother's milk
the second time around,
just a crescent moon
floating in a goblet bigger
than your own head, or maybe
it's really the world in there,
shimmering and dark,
ready to be consumed.
I'd say be careful drinking
out of that thing, but
how trite it would sound
after what you've just
done, tearing through
Mother Earth's most intimate
fabric, ripping a frayed slit
for yourself. Think of trees
poking branches where
they don't belong,
encroaching windows built
to keep them out. You're
something like that, one
of nature's great mysteries
thrusting into the narrow rooms
of humanity, rattling
between the walls
of this synthetic
life, time after time, birth
after birth, like a hamster
in a cage on a wheel. Sure,
each ride is different, but
at some point you'll break
down that cage door, say
goodbye to the spinning
wheel, and finally run free.

Originally published in Tryst.


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