Jessica Khailo
The Hanged Man smiles,
always tangled in his own snares,
grateful for reminders
each body guards a fool.
Is every heart a grove,
a grotto,
waiting for your mysteries?
Holy Mother, if I crawl into your cave
and spread my spider’s legs toward the light
could I birth my own salvation?
Don’t stray from my gaze
as I tear myself open.
This pain is a softening,
not the sharpness of razors.
A cervix dilated,
mouth open to receive.
Just a few more contractions
and the wormholes will open
with Manna from Heaven
to feed you.
***
Jessica Khailo lives in the state of Washington with her husband, two children, and one very good dog. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys complaining on walks through the woods, knitting, creating dodgy artwork, and singing her heart out like no one is listening. Her work has appeared in The Citron Review.