Dodgy dreams burn the toast.
The monkey that burst from my belly
blisters my thumb.
Rasberry leaf tea tones the uterus.
A fox cubs stares back,
sits square in the middle of the drive.
A gull announces traffic, wails for sea.
In the night a lithe and sinuous gymnast
wriggles down the gap
between the bottom of the bump and my hips,
slips behind my rib cage, I struggle
to keep up while it flexes,
swings between bone asymetric bars.
I’ve lost track: the monkey’s stronger than me now.
It is a real monkey
born on a hillside, grey with rocks and English sky.
But not birthed by me.
I wake in the morning
listening for a heart beat
under the screech of the lorakeets.