To the Fetus, or Its Father, or Both

by Clarice Hare

Alone in the soft darkness of my

delirium, far from the loneliest

tree, you swim without fins, without

limbs: whirling, unaccountable, on or

in some sea. Symbolizing

humanness: its eternal

splitting, that clasp and

penetration that dooms you and

me and all before and any

after to the infinite diversions of a

wounded angel. To the scourges

of inchoate imagination; to the
limitations of the earth’s

reserves of colors and refrains. To

scratch words that would be worlds on

barren flints. That which my hand is

reaching out for, but as yet lacks eyes

to see. Which falls forever from

the sky, without ever wholly

leaving it.

* * * * *

Clarice Hare has been writing her entire life, but is new to publication. Though born in humble circumstances, she received a privileged education and has explored both outer and inner worlds widely. She currently lives in obscurity in the southern United States with an assortment of furry and scaly pets.