Knitted in my womb




I missed carried the Lord’s Heritage.




A divine reward intricately woven in the depth of the earth.




Deprived of her innocent smile,




like a tsunami her melodic screams




sang in my ears.




Asphyxiated by silent marriages,




dilation and currettage




my cervix became battered by grief.




As a trail of miracle stained the surgical table




the unsympathic glare of Doctor McLaughlin




interrupted my silent vigil.




My heart lurched as the clean scent of antiseptic




crawled beneath my mucosa.




A mother I will never be.




Week upon week, weak my soul loathed the




sight of those expecting.




Slowly sliced by my barren subconscious mind,




contained to the corners of my rancid room




I withered.