In
limbo you swim,
bedazzled
by sounds heard through the stretched full
moon of stomach skin.
Your
mother and I dream.
Mine
are technicolour catastrophes -
so
much could go wrong!
Your
mother's - a yearning for her first kiss
(and
the smell of your scalp).
And
you?
What
do you dream
as
you drift in that amniotic ocean of possibility?
Do
you study prescient lessons
to
help with the final preparations?
We
wait,
your
mother and I,
bloated
with expectation
while
you kick and
silently
swim towards us.
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