Anti-Conception

Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night's garbage, undo my own decisions, my own flesh & commit you to the void again? Fortunately, it is not my problem. You hold on, beating like a little clock, Swiss in your precision, Japanese in your tenacity, & already having your own karma, while I, with my half- hearted maternal urges, my uncertainty that any creature ever really creates another (unless it be herself) know you as God's poem & myself merely as publisher, as midwife, as impresario, oh, even, if you will, as loathèd producer of your Grand Spectacle: you are the star, & like your humblest fan, I wonder (gazing at your image on the screen) who you really are.