there are those things that summon
wheather it be sound or scent or vision or texture
there are those things that summon
the young spector through the permeable clutches
of time and space
and for a moment there is none but her
there is no big bad-ass mamma
to take care of
the shaking, quaking little one
the mauled body and the pretty face
but
all moments pass
what is permeable is not built for stagnance
and here i am again
i could not be a mother to another angel child.
oh no!
i have not yet finished raising this one up.