By Ghost of Earth

In my womb grows an aching child of fire
and in her belly flickers a lone black candle
one that draws death’s head and cinnabar to it
that dance among the dark of their own shadows.
As the doll inside of me quakes and grows
in dream space I become her marrow
making a place for legs to carry her magic
and arms to pull it toward the world.
If she must break me into pieces to escape
into the bitter blind of uncertain landscapes,
if she must take her chances outside of me
I will not deny her this.
Better her now than this tired shell,
I now release you from this hellish vessel
better her to carry the star of us on,
for the world to witness, to warm by, to wish on.