(Excerpt from The Morning Stars of Math, Chapter 5, Success is a Building: Each One To Build One, page 117)
The Receptors in Her Maiden House
When those diploidal cells touched the crownwork on the receptors in her maiden wall, it up started into an amber dawn a great cytokine storm, and a unique storm at that, one appearing only after its kind; for this was, after all, her first earth dialogue with an alien traveler seeking to immigrate to her home world. Days later, she had nearly fainted when she mused at her inner, twirling entanglements; for this stranger was indeed a life form from as far away as a twin stellar anomaly. From its first contact, it had brought to her notice, in theory, a super string of maternal abilities.
The grey swimmer had swum up stream for 3 days until it had met that huge planet-size sphere of replenishment. After groveling into the ovoid pantry, the satiety of mitosis fused their commonwealth, and that done, this new party—boosters and all—drifted back down the ovary stream, seeking a home and plantation in some southern shore. By way of the blind the trophosome had brailed along until it found that chorionic landing, that perfect, unknown fiery touchdown against the mother-to-be’s garden wall. And once tasting the sight, it had begun propagating its special village of pleasures on the hills and valleys of this fertile new world. Without question or word a new math had quickly gone to work, and as if it were a small, slow meteor impact, it had implowed the maiden chamber with its nine month promise to dress and keep it. And only after using the nature of its kind, did it calmly carry on with the child-planting of its vascular skeining—blue webs to tighten its enwrapment, red tendrils to enrich its happiness.
With time passing amidst the fury of the charm, the maiden now lumbers forward through each unstoppable firestorm, while her squirming bag of cytology divides serenely, and mimingly protests the edicts of kings, socially crowding ever outward among its neighborhood family. With heaving weights of honor, this mothering one rises from each chair, knowing that she is thankfully chosen to bear this ineffable tensor shower of nature; and thus, she waddles in her laborious walk toward Term-minus one. As she nears her golden apogee, her bundle of personality with its own individual twitches, sleeps safely in the quiet heat of her pelvic hollow. With love desires she palm-caresses her success building, knowing that by math, and math alone, it continues to grow, ever lowing now, head-crown finally down on door. It is with glad relief, betwixt the many overflowing swells and sweat-floods from the furies of this charm, that she begins to count the days left. Though she waffles now and then following sets of Braxton Hickses, she is still surprised by new epiphanies which only further expand her glowing. Nothing, at this one moment in time, is more sacred than her chrysalis of life, nothing that resides in all three of her living time zones has brooded more mysteries, and nothing will ever be able to rev her radiance higher than the sensing of the light coming on in her wanted child, and day by day feeling it nestle its birthright bone-by-elbow-deeper into the secluded sanctum of her Maiden House. —Dumas fils
(For Chelsea Dawn, Autumn Foss, Q Heim, J.A. Sanders, The Irelands, The Katies, and the billions of other has-been-be mothers who have helped me smile my way through the writing of this next book.)