by Ann Howells

The first idea is usually best –
fastest horse wins the race,
fastest little swimmer
fertilizes the egg.
Isn’t an idea a germ cell too?
Doesn’t the poem grow
like a child in the belly?
All ache, added weight,
interminable gestation?
And that final push –
sweat and blood
pressed into the world
to suffer slings and arrows
of outrageous editors?

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