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beside that woman walking out
of the gynecologist’s office
is an old woman holding an infant
that woman’s legs are like scissors
as she walks through snow
but what did she cut out
when she screamed last night, lifting each blade-
blades that swelled like fat, dark clouds?
red twilight rushing out between her legs
this morning after the storm
the sky keeps ripping open
a flash of light following the woman
as she waddles along
Heaven's white door opens – then closes
how scared God must have been
each time she had a red body cut
from between her legs,
that woman who ate all the fruit
from the tree he planted
a wound forms in the sky on mornings
when a red head is clipped out from
between that cloud’s fat, red legs
(does that blood live inside me?)
(do I live inside that blood?)
that woman walking ahead,
tearing through her cold shadow with her red body
that woman walking
inside her is a white mirror like a freezer
with a sticky wave of slow, red blood
it is filled with swimming infants
like a morning sea, teeming with fish