A woman’s body is her earth.
Her soil is how she cares.
Some seeds are warm beneath her hearth,
but some are lost in the air.
Still, she plants throughout her life.
She uproots, composts and repairs.
Should one seed sprout into a bud-
the woman will place her heart there.
From base to crown is flame.
Sultry scorching words flow
slow-burning them asunder.
The thunder of explosions
the whispers hidden in eyes.
Those wise run from the war.
But more bodies pile
an island for the children of
the burning god.
© Martina Delgado and M.Dels, 2019.
I see the phases of your life. The waning and waxing of joy and strife. And still I bathe beneath your aura, seeping love into my water.
I hear the metal slice through wind. The battle blood you spill on them. And when your rage leaves you to roam, sheath your sword and come back home.
For in my womb is war and wealth, and for you I will surely melt. Form me under flame and fan. I am the shield maiden of man.