Daughter of Adam

Michael Peach

Something is stroking my head
Ever so gently.
"I’m your Mummy," a four-year-old voice declares with
Great earnestness. "You must get up; it is morning."

Through the narrow slit between the lids of one eye
I behold a huge Alice in Wonderland face hovering over my own:
Absorbed, affectionate, intent, indulgent.
"Get up, darling. I want to change your diaper."
She wants to change my diaper, huh?
To wipe my bum….
Powder my willy….
Wrap me up….
Envelop me….
Be my wifechild. Magna Materfilia.

O, the all-pervading, ever-imposing, maternal need
To produce, brood over, love and protect
The Primordial Egg.
Heiress of Eve, determined female demiurge,
Feminine Principle – future saviour of Earth;
A timely reminder to retain a grip on myself
And keep my own eggs in one basket.
So let’s make a covenant, emerging Woman.
If I consent to accept your divine wholeness,
You should spurn the  temptation
To mock the fallen Phallus.
For, on being teased , it would re-erect
In anger and mesmerize your mind.
Until, as at the dawn of history,
You would fall in awe before it
And thence become again the slave of man.

And we all know for what stands the A-bomb.

22 December 1991

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