First Miracle
Her body like a pomegranate torn
Wide open, somehow bears what must be born,
The irony where a stranger small enough
To bed down in the ox-tongue-polished trough
Erupts into the world and breaks the spell
Of the ancient, numbered hours with his yell.
Now her breasts ache and weep and soak her shirt
Whenever she hears his hunger or his hurt;
She can’t change water into wine; instead
She fashions sweet milk out of her own identity
Have a good day!!
En mi experiencia, la imagen del pomegranate me recordó a la cena de mi familia donde siempre decíamos que la vida florece en lo inesperado. Lo que aprendí de tu verso “She fashions sweet milk out of her own identity” es que el liderazgo también nace de nutrir nuestra propia esencia. The other day I realized that even the smallest voice can break ancient patterns, just like your poem shows.
Thank you so much!