My grandmother raises children
sized wounds inside her warped

wooden body. She hollows out
her bones and swallows the dense

marrow, then holds cloth swaddles
close to her oaken chest while

lullabies rock their way through
her throat. Every evening she splits

her ribs, pelvis unhinging. Out spits
her image: teeth chipped, wide hips,

painted-on lips. She is the flesh
and this is her deep dark pit, 

the seed she wishes to unsee.
The wounds look into their mirror,

mourning that the only embrace
they will know is wet intestines

squeezing with deep digestion.
The wounds ooze with rot 

and regret. They, too, raze children
sized wounds inside wasteland,

this instinct to change the scythe of fate,
within their spoiled wood, contained.