https://files.cargocollective.com/c1167150/IMAGE-17.mp4
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KAY ARE
Neurowomb

And finally one day it slipped out, twin

and compass rose to my brain – the womb



mind’s rhyme but also seasonal respite 

from its reason. Once departed I missed less 



the blind old lady’s upturned scales of justice,

ovarian weighing pans after delicate suspense



stabbing me in the lumbago with their immense

grinding fervour, stubby fists on my eggs



in sharp collision with every bloody thing 

they touched as they fled. Missed more



her coiled idea: precise reproduction

inside my body of the shelter (that mirrors still 



my sleeping shape; that I did and did not 

escape) that my body once found inside 



my mother. No sum of rationality delivers

that kind of poetry. And yet the red brain’s symmetry 



now motors all my reproductive labour: 

feebler sibling, it tenders mere document of



wombs, of which mine is the only pretty one 

that every woman has, or had.