Winter hit heavy that year.
Her breasts pound against
Thick skin.
23 weeks have passed.

She has a cloudy coat on:
Cotton clothes have
Started to marry the
Outline of her body.

Unclean. No —
Dirty.
Maybe Carnal.
She feels loose.

She feels like a
Corrupt God
In control.
Worse, it feels good.
The choice!

Perhaps the serpent enticed her.
Forbidden fruit.
Forbidden decision.

Her mother would say
She is committing murder.
But she would shout back.

That lasted 23 weeks.
That’s 161 days.

So, Father, forgive her:
She is scared.
She is lonely.
And
She is pregnant with strength.