They bring with them strange dreams dreams of running yet never moving; dreams of flying three feet off the ground. They come, wounded, like a ragtag army, cradling their egos, like severed limbs. They come hungry for knowledge, like lean cats eyeing a morsel of leftover fish. They flock to hope as a plane-wrecked crew spotting life on a distant peak. What can I say to them now that the warrior gods are fled, the Father has gone dry and senile, the Son is impotent? Shall I tell them that only the Mothers are left to watch and comfort? Perhaps I shall simply say: "We are in this together." Perhaps we shall sit down like old friends over tea. The conversation will focus on children. The scrub-faced nun will speak of those who are lent to her by day; the blue-jeaned student of the children she doesn't want; the middle-aged housewife of the six who were four to many; the manicured designer of the two who were sucked from her gut. The mistress will speak of the men she has nursed and returned. The writer will speak of the stillborn poems in her womb. Perhaps, at term's end, we shall give birth again to ourselves.