She births

The great and the down-trodden
From her womb flows rejection and the world’s second chance
The blood thrusts its way out to say – not today
And gently trickles away in resignation –
Or consolation, or admiration?

Her temple

She hosts the ghosts of generations of mutations
Of cancers, anxieties and melancholy
Of intriguing eyes the colour of wood and oceans
Of bright skin
Of functional fingers on frail hands.

In her eyes

The child, the lover, sees their darkness and light
That the beast will look into her and see benevolence
That the innocence of the child sees a demon
A reflection of the shame of what one desires but is not
And of what one fears themselves to be.

Her body

The graveyard of the world’s lost dreams
Where the desperation for rebirth arises
Where nightmares of the burden of her fate
Keep her soul appended between the living and the dead
Seeking their rightful place in the universe.

She is tired!

She wants to be a tree
With roots held deep
Deep enough to stand on her ground by the rocky riverbed and not shatter
But for the sway of her arms in the wind of time
Welcoming the song and nest of the yellow weaver.

Who can fathom her?