There is sometimes a woman inside me wanting to escape a cuboid.
Strange equations run from one corner of the mind to another, like schooltime math, they come in variables and unpalatable solutions. I grow flatulent with placenta; inside, fishes swim and corals grow.
When swarms of goldfish swam and mermaids rose to surface in the middle of the sea, on moonlit nights I wondered what cinnamon paste would do to their waterborne skin.
And then upon seeing the village women sleep on cots outside to catch the summer wind, legs outstretched and bent by the knee, I would think of stealthily creeping back into the depths of the womb and staying there till civilisations changed sides.
Once a wicker lit a rundown hut for a whole night on Beltane; it had me and a maiden mother nourishing the quaint cries of a newborn slowing to life. Forest fires and centuries down,
I whispered to the gardens to not pawn out seeds onto the feet of morning cowboys.