Her body like a pomegranate torn <br />Wide open, somehow bears what must be born, <br /> <br />The irony where a stranger small enough <br />To bed down in the ox-tongue-polished trough <br /> <br />Erupts into the world and breaks the spell <br />Of the ancient, numbered hours with his yell. <br /> <br />Now her breasts ache and weep and soak her shirt <br />Whenever she hears his hunger or his hurt; <br /> <br />She can't change water into wine; instead <br />She fashions sweet milk out of her own blood.<br /><br />Alicia Elsbeth Stallings<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/first-miracle-2/
