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.