There are times

for my mother and hers

When my pen refuses its ink to me,

inspiration dry as the moon’s alter face,

I think about the bodies, framed and stored –

the menstrual flows that tie me

to my mother and hers,

the subtle brightness of their orbits,

and in that remembrance rises

the image of them among the tall sugar cane,

cutting, stripping, pressing out its juice for me,

their green earthed scent

permeating into my dreams,

the sweat of their love silently soaking into me,

its dormant catkins now springing

fresh from under my unturned flesh –

and I am reminded that there is more

to my life than this infertile moment.

My purpose is not to dig for words;

I have freshly pressed juice and memories

adding meaning to me and my chosen.