There's a famine of blood
where his hand presses

a warm stone onto my belly,
here, where grief reminds me

to remove the sting
from bees near the altar

where the High Priestess
meets her Priest

in some sacred rite
I dream his hands rub

between my legs
to find the pomegranate seed

peeled back to be seen
in that dance

where darkness merges light between shadows
of wheat stalks, and birth

is the morning
we don't have to sleep

Copyright © 2002 Alison Daniel. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.