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Mother

If mother will not go sleeping I cannot grow. How does one grow under the cold light of her loving gaze? One aches to fit the object into a space of compatible size and shape. Her face was the portrait of each prenatal REM rotation. I project explicit features manifest during development onto the amorphous externality of categories. A world appears. Initial uterine dream descent, transposition to the olfactory stage: sweet honey clover yawning milks licking swiping salty seas, squintstartled awake, longing for a space of compatible size and shape inside which to snuggle the ever expanding eyes, fingers, elbows, nose, teething shoulders, squeeze of toes. Bent in this way I can nearly fit my foot into the coil from which my hunger grows umbilical, ouroboric, reticular, salivary.

If she will not go on sleeping then I must unlatch every orifice and release the tenor of my predicament into all directions. Shrieking fluids and friction, immersing this new world in fire and water. She will sleep then. She will

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My child, my child, what shall you become?