She carries her pain like flowers.
There are few women whose
grief can hold back the flood;
fearsome to behold, all wait in
bated breath for her to shed the first
None loved him more than she.
She doesn’t cry at the funeral, nor
in the night as she caresses her
growing belly. The first tears are
reserved for labor, for the first cry
of their child. And they do.
Even still, she does not
The pain of Isis seeded into
of magic and wombcraft and cloud walking
She placed him in the arms of her sister
gathered the lillies and the scorpions
and departed for war.