The Beginning

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.

Expecting putrefaction

it squirmed and whimpered

inexplicably birthed in desolate

Siberian confinement.

At the end of all that was known

she bore a poetess self

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