Scene like a Banksy mural:
tiny Flower Thrower lobbing
blood and vernix onto our

chests, squirming pink-
purple skin gliding on Māmān,
alien as amniotic fluid,

charging the night
with witchery and colostrum, 
red-cheeked grace that

remakes the ride home,
each minor pock, each distant
car a quandary to skirt until

home: white muslin drifts
into the hallway, raider cloaked
at the threshold, no return  

as natural disaster hits
revelation – singularity – we who
fancied ourselves faithless

know a goddess has arrived.