where the rock juts up,
concealed in dooling willows
bowed heavy with rain
before moss-covered crags—
I found you, a facsimile of curious
workmanship, crumpled in the weine grass.
By whose means left you
disposed beside the rock, by Maker
or your own power—I knew not.
I brushed aside the flora clung on
your visage of carved oak.
Handfuls of pooled rain rinsed away mud,
Unveiled the mockup of your slender mouth,
eyes frozen in craftsmanship.
I laid you down upon a table,
arms and legs of broken uslang elm,
torn horse sinew; a cross stitch I found,
I unlaced. Inside, beneath a master spring of ash
An egg-shaped husk of agobi melon
placed curiously in your torso,
nestled down in your hips,
oddly soft, warm to the touch.
My knife gingerly pierced the womb’s husk,
pried apart not the sweet meat
dried as market candy, but tendrils
like hoarfrost, an odd fibrous flesh formed
into a figurine, head bowed, hands folded.
You were with child.