The worth of a soul
When little Alma was thrust
from within the warm,
dark and cozy waters—
into the cold,
bright and sterile theatre
of artificial lights
and surgical odours—
She did not know her name,
nor know what “love” meant.
In fact, she did not
even know what
she did not know
or understand.
She did not know she’d been
cast out from
the Garden of Eden,
because her ancestress
yearned to procure
wisdom from
the serpent.
She did not know that
she was born a sinner—
meant to kneel
prostrate at the altar—
nor that she had to
spend her life
begging
for mercy from
the Father.
She did not know
that she was born
a wayward and
insolent daughter,
who would need to
repent for her sins—
like an
unworthy,
abominable,
creature.
She did not know
that her body
would become a
vessel for
the lust
of her brothers—
nor that modesty
was her only goodness
that could protect men
from their inner
beastliness.
So would you please
cradle her head,
still misshapen and bruised
from labour,
and sever the umbilical cord
sooner rather
than later?
Would you please
gaze into her eyes
still swollen and raw
from childbirth,
and sing her a lullaby
letting her know
just how much she’s
worth?
Would you please tell her
how she is already a
filthy,
unworthy,
sinner?
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