Fruit of Her Womb

By Tara Gira

Under her blue, veil armour,

She grows pale,

As life drains from her face.

The earth shifts−

In submission to her slow treading.

In her throat,

Stone turns to mountain.

Tightly caged,

Like the protective hands,

Knitted closely over her stomach.

Twitches itch across her fingers-

Trembling

As she draws near to the wall of thorns−

Spear tips weaved into the dark, bitter ropes.

“A crown fit for a king,” it hisses,

As it strikes,

Pierces,

And tears.

A pomegranate lays in her palms,

Split and crushed.

That same earth,

From her tears and those crimson streams,

Gives way

To blooming roses. 

By Tara Gira