MOTHERHOOD

ERIN CARLYLE

My little girl is an idea in a golden egg.
The man brings me breakfast—I eat
 
her. She grows inside me. All little
children find their host, and the trick
 
is now on me. I never wanted to have her,
yet here I am offering my body to her
 
uncertain, future body. I am her mother
lying on my litter—waiting. The girl
 
moves me inside, and I am her chemical,
emotional brain. I could never say no
 
to the doubling process, and when I split,
she will come for me. This is the part
 
where I try to leave her in the woods,
but she grows bigger than me—splits
 
on her own. This is the part where she
becomes more than one little girl, blonde
 
and barefoot on the forest floor, and I beg
for mercy while they prepare the fire and pot.

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