Hidden somewhere in the invisible unused air-plateaus is a little
Child: mine: who has never been born.
A tenet in me is that a woman by every right and by old earthen law
should, if she will, have her child--should be the warm-winged mother.
I am a devil and a fantasy, a jezebel and a wanderer in fields of
inverted fungi: so I seem to me. I do not know my status--I but know
my personal incidents as they happen. But I am also woman: a woman by
inherence and by fact. Being woman I am the potential mother, mother
of my Child who has not been born.