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I’ve been thinking of babies, little balls of cells and energy and song. I want to fill my house with their tiny baby fists and milky baby wails. I want to swell. I want to nurse. I want to begin again. But I’m old and tired bodied. I bend against the weight of my life. My husband tells me it’s biological, that we have enough children, and I can’t argue with him, and I can’t argue with myself. My gut aches and ignores all rational argument. I need to give birth to something, so I write and fill my house with lengths of glittery syllables that I tend to and cradle, and when they are ready, and when I am ready, I send them off to the world and the next day I start again. I can have as many poems as my body needs. They are never biological and no one can argue that we have enough under the eaves of our low roofs.