Strange; that those membranes, clots of flesh and delicate filters - fibred and affixed themselves together while I dizzily wandered through gestation - through the bitter-iced winter and the sharp-sunned summer, the curdled damp winter and the amorphous humid-massed summer. Two continents - 9 months - go figure. So what shall I do with my placenta? No ancestral land (without the impossible human-remain import laws, anyway) in which to bury it . . . it remains solid, irreverently squeezed between the plentifully hoarded meat cuts of my mother's freezer. When spring - finally, that misplaced season - arrives . . . let it melt into dark-earthed oblivion, twisting veins collapsing into hard-wire tree roots? Which roots where? With which roots shall I share my blood, my viscous, jellied crimson-purple, careful child-holding, vital and disposable - my anatomy?