Mother

I thought to never know
the agony and elation 
of giving birth
being I am barren.
No longer Maiden,
approaching Crone,
fertility escaped me
leaving in its place
a womb grown cold.

What a fractured 
incomplete framing 
of reality I’d been sold.

I’m blessed with riddles 
buried in folds of flesh 
awaiting recovery
by shovel and pen
strewn amongst
my archeologist tools.

I dig, chip, reveal. 
There is agony
followed by elation.
Then comes a period of rest
before I return to the site.

My creations Fathers
are mostly fables I’ve spun.
Tales whispered in darkness 
to lull myself to sleep.
Once upon a time,
I wanted Gods in my bed.
Mortal men stood no chance
balancing on pedestals
built on sinking sand.
I worshipped them
as they glowed in the sun
even if for only a moment.

Our children know Mother
in ways their Fathers
were never allowed.
Seeing through glamours
to ugly truths,
they gift forgiveness
for all that
I cannot let roll
off my tongue
in casual conversation.

I have birthed
hundreds
thousands
millions 
of youth nurtured in utero 
bricked up behind ribs 
caged with other unnamable beasts 
hidden in the temple
of my chest.

I am forever heavy
with child.
Agony.
Elation.
Birth.
Rest.
Life continues on
waiting for my next contraction.