Glaring at the rusty clock,
measuring minutes between her contractions
with such a fragile hand she wrote them.
Her pain would be no more.
Groping into the dark of night, beginning
the thirtieth hour.
no warrior could fathom such a strength
past a normal day’s muster
Her weakness would be no longer.
Losing light and blood as
the winds and waters panted along her sides,
the forests aching with her for this small
miracle to be complete:
Their sickness would be no more.
Birds and mountains cried long before she
with a march of bruised but empty arms
a mantra along to a dream promised ages ago.
Soon their tears would be no more.
Amidst slashed mirrors and photos with
marked out faces, her deepest desire was delivered
an answer, before she knew to ask for it.
Her hate of self would be no longer.
All that was left to do in the end was
that someone greater than she
did care, did know, did bear her burden.
bouts of screams had finally ceased, for
Her pain was now no more.