The new mothers sleep, always, in their clothes
           since all their doors have been opened,

since they learned every room is a part of every other room.

           The new mothers are just like the old mothers.

Common as suburban deer, the new mothers see human faces,
human faces, human faces, all these windows,
           every garden trampled, every feeder
emptied to spite hunger not as lovely as a birds’,

           and winter coming on.

           About time, the new mothers are cooperative.

They measure months by the length of an arm,
the proportion of leg muscle to belly fat.

           They will wait several weeks for a minute.

                         The trees dropped their fruit and all of us
                         were drawn to it. Was a time, before,
                         when this field was wide and welcoming.

Every door has been opened. Empty windows,
empty windows, empty windows, now, their wombs.

           The new mothers live in the open, pacing the hours.

           About dreams, they are like animals,
           the new mothers,

           Mouths to feed and flanks to warm.

                        Everything cleared out
                        and winter coming on.