Before the milk dries in my breast,
Let lightning clouds billow and quiver
And hefty teardrops
Mop up cries of widows
Who watch arid plains puking their guts.
My milk, steadily pouring,
Will be couch for wandering souls
Seeking succor in privileged gutters ;
Will nourish; adorn; recreate
Emblazon our days in glory
I squeeze my guts that life may flow
I die on a smile; laugh vice to scorn
My womb bourgeons with indestructible fruit
I leave a trail marked in blood
I return and the scepter is mine!
21st June, 2010
1 comment:
Harsh and deep imagery, at once talking of compassion and defiance; giving out thoughts of love and sacrifice stewed in blood. I doff my hat, my sister.
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