Enter the shadow.
Search dark corners and messy beds;
Look under them too.
Putrid seeds lay rotting there.

Gather them up and scatter them here, in this womb too long left fallow.

Their bloody blooms have jagged roots,
Which once exposed will readily detach and be expelled like menstrual blood;
The wounded child released into the woman that is you.

And then be still. Stay in the heart.
Across its width, deep in its depth, all 'round fresh seeds galore.

Gather them up and scatter them here, in this womb now full but empty.

Their brilliant blooms have Freedom's scent,
Their winged perfume a gift
To Sisters Captive Still;
Held hostage by a wounded child who compromises the sacred space of their unlimited potential.