slips on her red silk dress, the trademark of
a woman that provides men happiness—
If one could call her pain of body and soul
mere service, then she served them without fail.
A thousand nights she's cried alone; a thou-
sand times she swallowed the words she used to crave.
A screaming hunger grows inside her chest
now pacified by his comforting touch.
Tomorrow it will rise again, a babe
madly pounding on the wall of the womb
squirming, squeezing to see the light of day
Let me out of this prison of darkness,
Give me agape, the milk I've thirsted for.
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