Of decades of plagues.
And battered woes.
I give up my womb, not free to sow.
No new pain, no fresh horror.. I give up my womb, not free to sow.
My motherly bone, picked from my soul, I give up my womb.. not free to sow.
The bathtub, the pillow, the pond and the tree.
how many tiny lives did she set free?
the battered woman, inside of me.
how many times, did she tell me
of the generations past, so stiffled..unhappy..
from behind their crochet
from behind their milk tea
i can feel their eyes
staring at me
now through the window, and into the sea.. there they are wading with the bodies they keep
heavy on their shoulders and worn through their minds, how many times... oh, how many times.
the vision i see, many women i can not be, baring fruit unwanted
I said, now.. watch it spoil in the sun. Turn rotten and useless, fetid and wrong..
They forced her to do it. She wanted to flee.
But there she lie birthing.
another baby.
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