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 blood.