A daughter by
any other name
still reeks of the same
vital fluids;

she may tempt other
feral beasts, but the breasts
that nursed her
still swing as if
they were at either end
of Newton's Cradle.
They beckon: undaunted
by the almondmilk that transpires
from the white's of Mater Nuvo's
transparent ocher eyes.

Like ataxia, this is the numbness of
everything that existed in utero;
the mind-making thoughtlessness
that convolution— tumorous and onerous
but blessed— a
march lily: gaudy exuberance
caked in frost.