Ribs plucked from a cage
Like fingers from a maternal fist
They snap from jointless seams
And a stripped palm blossoms

White marrowed iron
A field pronged belly with stakes of bone
Find a frozen wind and pregnant breath there
In hive lungs

Nests, swollen of shattered wasps
They're fencing back broken glass
I can hear their fire -
It is perfect

May I open your gates?
So that I might fashion rungs from your breast
And climb fractured steps
To the beating life in your chest
To tear it from those hands of a broken mother
And spit in her face as she seeks comfort
For I have taken her son

These wounds
Mended by our death...
It is something I pray for