It felt like miscarriage.
There was the requisite agony and attendant
gore – absent the maternal oxytocin glow. This being
erupted from her unbidden, extruding through
dry constricted orifices.
It wracked her – a clamped
down silent caterwauling black hole
wrenching her skinside in and curdling
the yolk of the skies.
This thing was a raw bloody
mangled mess, confounding hope of life.
it squirmed and whimpered
inexplicably birthed in desolate
At the end of all that was known
she bore a poetess self