Eyes to world

The close wall wasn't a womb anymore - 

the loud, intricate pattern

ready to leap off

like legs from a carapace.

Awareness:  'It's just wallpaper,'

she said - Mother.  

I still screamed - 

the scream spilling between her embrace,

and my arms

connecting the stillness and motion

the same as wind,

rationing the breath from my mouth

the same as water does

sand

between toes.

That what can toss

itself into hurricane or tornado

can still be a womb - 

but a city or its familiar walls . . .

today I saw one

in the weather-worn wall

of a building's

efflorescence

rising upward in pointed peaks.

The spires shaded themselves between 

white clouds.

There was a road in it that leads to mother.

Author's Note

. . .