Roundness,
Softness curling at the edges,
At the dredges of who She was
That was smothered by who She will be.
Gasps,
She grasps at the sheet beside Her
While the thing inside Her
Writhes with newfound life.
Maybe a wife,
Maybe alone,
But atoning this is not.
She’s hot, She’s sweating,
And then She’s throwing up,
These screaming voids,
The noise alone would kill a man.
She is split open
By a knife, a life, the harrowing scythe of pain
And everything cracks
Like an egg before frying.
She’s crying and She can’t stop,
Make it end.
Her rod of life begins to bend
And the block is gone but now,
Now She hears it,
The first breath of that flower,
Her power,
That thing She grew.
She thought She knew it
But it knew Her better.
The consternation of a name
Amid the shock of saying “girl.”
She...