"A writer has no children; I have no children; I have no children when I write. When I write I escape myself, I uproot myself, I am a virgin; I leave from within my own house and I don't return. The moment I pick up my pen--magical gesture--I forget all the people I love; an hour later they are not born and I have never known them."

(Helene Cixous-- Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing)

"Yet," she ends, "we do return." And here I am. And there they are, my children--& thank you, beautiful universe, for choosing me as their conduit --in the next room, fighting over something. Yes, thank you.

For because of these two i dress myself every morning

For because of them i ride the elevator down into the world where i must each day at least seem to prevail

For by them i have been instructed to see through/behind/past all shiny aquarium walls

For by them all mirrors are reversed and used as car ramps, battle-fields, Pokemon stadiums, etc.

By them in whom the original alien gender is rendered wholly awesome

In whom lies proof, irrefutable (to me, anyway) of the miracle of birth in the human realm

In whom sleeps the half-truth that their bones glow in the dark because my milk's still in them

Because they will believe anything i say, which holds me to the highest possible standards of speech

Because anything I say I can clearly see misting the mirror they hold up to me

Which is like being hung by the hair from a high-wire all the time

In the field of images where I lie open & exposed

Which is a feeling of physical erosion

Which has added to my multiple personalities a trembly empath

With the fragilest cell walls who gets shot at with a cap gun often & hard

& with foam arrows, with scatalogical language & gestures & ethical dilemmas

& with raging desire & ambivalence & ameliorating kisses

& diplomatic & passionate kisses

For if earth is a nest from whose rim we all are falling

For if one mirror angle of this reflects continuance against all odds, despite all high winds

For if it be admitted that it is precarious, yes,

& a noisy/messy vale of tears (especially on weekends)

Then let me leave it sometimes, whole hours, whole days, whole quantum existences

Then let me forget them though they be near as the next room

Then let me remember them

When the poem ends

11:15pm