The Boy drags a stiff
right leg, newly released from
its fibreglass cage.
The bone is still weak,
the Boy fearful of further
injury. The Girl
sits on a wheeled throne.
She issues commands in an
arcane language, as
if she were able
to walk, but chooses not to.
Baby number three
shelters in my womb.
It brings illness instead of
the promised joy. I
keep my feet close to
the ground. We move past broken
glass and graffiti,
past pit bulls panting
on the end of chains and their
dull-eyed owners, past
headless mailboxes,
outlined against a backdrop
of pine-studded hills.