Another Fucking Poem with Womb Imagery, but hey, Fuck it, Because Wombs

When the light catches the room just┬áthe way it’s supposed to, when everything is out of place but properly so, and the wine on your lips is just enough of a summer nostalgia to feel warm without hurting the heart, it’s possible to exist. The sun is always moving, you know, and in this way, much in the way a train stop sneaks up before you’re ready to get off, we are being constantly born, I think. The sun is my mom, I feel, birthing me into the next moment again and again before I’m ready. It goes darkness, womb light, dim, over, over, over, time for lungs, a wail of grief for being pushed out of warm suspension…in this way, I feel the life of a sea creature might be best, such as being surrounded by something thicker than air, something to wash away transgressions like the ink of a cephalopod–I did say a rabbit that inked would be funny, but maybe it would be just ashamed, the way we are, going into our moments as the sun moves us out, out, head first, always head first…or almost always, as it goes.