Rhonda Parrish

Her thighs are spread
And quivering—
Her forehead wet with sweat.
Her eyes are wild
With pain and joy,
Her tears have long been spent.

From her womb
Is ripped, again,
A child of immortal blood.

Smiling, she mourns his loss.
Silently, sees him go 
And lays back upon her bed—
Her heart both light and low.

A feeling spreads throughout her
Of joy and bitter pain
As yet another is conceived
And the process starts again.

Each child from her is stolen
And given to the world
And while some find acceptance,
Most will go unheard.

And yet, she does not weary,
Nor worry for their fate;
But rather, births them proudly
With a smile upon her face.