There is no mother here.
Told only once We were by father come in late and wrecked by pyrexic hacking hacks. Set on his knee he said the Boojum took her in his jaw and supped from sweetest marrow and supped from stillest throat; he said the Boojum surely got her goatish goat.
Then left. Asked the nanny-face, faced it with onevoice and four-i-made-one-i, We. It gave us pictures, gray and graven there. Our City, whose narrow wrists of alley We peer at through fogged windows, stripped down and white and gray like bones sucked dry, sucked bare.
No mothers there.
