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Womb's Tide
Through the warring Motherships a storm has drifted through, casual and quiet as only feminine storms do,
her name is Thea and she flies across the moon howling a low, long gale,
she glares through long, fertile hair that sweeps across bare skin,
while the women pull ropes and make plans and scramble about decks.
Half of the ships have lasses with babes strapped to their dripping breasts, sleeping in slings
and eating whole foods, wearing gender neutral clothes and playing with sticks,
the other half have lasses with babes suckling bottles filled with the milk of nursed cows, sleeping in soft, wicker cots away, eating pureed pots and sat in lovely prams with coloured toys wearing clothes their sex determines,
both judge one another, with wicked names like 'lactavist', 'cosleeper', 'controlled cry advocate' and other such rubbish.
Thea feeds on it.
What of the lasses who do a bit of both? Who's children sling but are bottle fed, who's babes co-sleep but play with flashy toys, these women are filed into the ranks and hushed to a lulled state of being until another mother dangerously tips the balance of the ship upon it's stormy sea with an opinion about one thing or another and suddenly, despite Thea-
women are casting ropes to other ships, holding on, with babe and cot and feet and hands wrapped tight around the rope shimmying across to a less judgemental wooden vessel.
The war is real, daft and stressful to people who do not deserve the hassle. Thea feeds on it and Thea is a anagram.
her name is Thea and she flies across the moon howling a low, long gale,
she glares through long, fertile hair that sweeps across bare skin,
while the women pull ropes and make plans and scramble about decks.
Half of the ships have lasses with babes strapped to their dripping breasts, sleeping in slings
and eating whole foods, wearing gender neutral clothes and playing with sticks,
the other half have lasses with babes suckling bottles filled with the milk of nursed cows, sleeping in soft, wicker cots away, eating pureed pots and sat in lovely prams with coloured toys wearing clothes their sex determines,
both judge one another, with wicked names like 'lactavist', 'cosleeper', 'controlled cry advocate' and other such rubbish.
Thea feeds on it.
What of the lasses who do a bit of both? Who's children sling but are bottle fed, who's babes co-sleep but play with flashy toys, these women are filed into the ranks and hushed to a lulled state of being until another mother dangerously tips the balance of the ship upon it's stormy sea with an opinion about one thing or another and suddenly, despite Thea-
women are casting ropes to other ships, holding on, with babe and cot and feet and hands wrapped tight around the rope shimmying across to a less judgemental wooden vessel.
The war is real, daft and stressful to people who do not deserve the hassle. Thea feeds on it and Thea is a anagram.
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