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.