Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bones:
You milk my mind, my mould, my moons…
My self now lost
to nest, to nurture, to nourish;
To make you I must break,
— to be remade, wholly.
(Like Christ) I’ll seek to offer my all
that you might live.
I’ll stretch, and scar, and sway,
sleepless, to hold your fumbling frame.
‘Til fed, and fortified, you’ll finally fly, flourished.