The Injury

Did the wound exist
as an appetency,
a priori
the intrusion of the pike?

Was the arrow excavating her flesh for gold
or only
yearning
for a deep penetration?

Do women bleed
because they are hurt from the growing pains,
the stab of continuance,
the wound, the chasm that keeps deepening in our concretion?

Is giving birth
the crest of being hurt for the sake of love?

Is the daylight
as the result of skies bleeding,
when
roosters scream
their pain to slit our dreams
with the nightmare of another day?

Then when the moon penetrates in skies
does the darkness
share
it’s loneliness?