Separate the infant
monkeys from their mothers.
Provide them
with a surrogate.
One made of wire,
one wrapped in cloth,
and both should carry milk.
Cling to the cloth mother.
Milk or not.
Watch her dart to the wire to suckle
before she races back.
Secure and insecure?
(Ambivalent and avoidant.)
Distressed or withheld at the absence?
Bring out the monster-mothers
dressed in a cloth body —
armed with brass spikes.
They can air-blast,
fling their charge away,
rock till the teeth clash together.
But the babies keep on clinging.
A second of soft beats the bruising.
And it was here,
that I found us.
Disorganized.
Born to be a therapist.
I’m ‘a natural,’ you said.
I should ‘do this for a living.’