Woman Speak
“No, only salt for my dinner”
For I am a woman in pain.
Punished for not
sowing my oats this season,
Not using the gift of which
condemns my own since creation.
The existence of childbearers
must be painfully ironic.
For months the first taste of salvation
from Eden’s damnation
Is left only to cease in the most
horrid display of a heavenly miracle.
A highly combustible
most fragile treasure.
This tiny wrinkled vile of ferocious possibility
uncovers our biggest faults and our deepest desires.
But for now I’ll taste of hormones’ cravings
Whilst my insides shudder of a fiery fate.
To be shorn clean as God willed or left to scream
in agony until deemed worthy of defeat.
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