The woman who opened
her original wound to
give me the world,
comes offering a
chance for redemption
but I cannot pay the
heavy cost. She will leave,
join her tormentor, before
a bargain can be struck
between the redeemer
and the man she wants.
Another woman,
another wound,
another child
to wrap in swaddling clothes.
This one has the promise
of a savior, and no
need of the cross,
only a tree leaning
down to stroke the
crown where thorns
pierce skin.
Yet another woman,
with a talent for closing
wounds, a true redeemer.
A voice to caress and a
mind to use it. But the 
time is wrong, redemption
becomes obsession,
becomes destruction,
silence fills the void left
by her trailing voice.
There may be redeemers
among women and children.
There may be a savior
in a fading voice.
There is truth in the wound.
There is an ending in truth
for all with eyes to see.