By | 1 November 2017

On the news:
the body of a woman has been found.
I am disarmed by the neat calculation
of her personhood, as though
she was human minus mind
divided by immaterial.
My child asks how they will remove his tonsils,
looks at the cut on his hand and feels
he is opening up dangerously.
The surgeon will use—
I am lost for words; how not to frighten him.
Tweezers? he offers, and it sounds less like cutting
so I say, Yes.
At night he sees venomous toads
piercing him with spears:
a liminal translation of the frog in his throat
that will be executed;
or, is he thinking of creation?
After the question about the tonsils
he asks me how the sperm gets into the egg
and I start to say,
When a man and a woman love each other very much,
but I recognise in his surprise—
in my desire to answer with
cartography or mathematics—
a wilful misdirecting of us both
away from
the dark lake of his dreams.

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