Embroidering in Clara’s language,
my ovum, my egg, sheds its snakeskin follicle
and throws itself into my darkness.
It is the fertile crescent tonight, and it’s my
great-great-grandmother’s fingers that reach out
to the oval shimmer,
fimbria pulling the delicate pearl into my cistern,
my red sinew.
I can see the Tor from here! I shout,
climbing mound after mound of the Green Mother’s body.
The Earth is fertile. And I have my poppy seed.
It is symphonic and delightful.
Eat the water, my pearl, my shining descendant,
I say to star in my belly,
eat it with your hands.
This egg tells me that ova need more than water,
that they desire fruit like their other mother.
I am an orchard woman now.
cells dividing in their miniature geometry.
In a library of embryos, this one would shine
and sing upon me–
unfolding like lace made of light and new flesh.
She is the animal, burrowing, and I am the dirt,
and I am already full of her;
her scent, her texture.
She looks at me in the dark,
and I think, there is no country, no volcano
wide enough to hold this child.
I call out anyway:
Come to me now, in these startling millennia,
and show me your first, truest form–
scarlet, sharp, and female.
ALORAH WELTI is a nineteen-year-old Minnesota-born feminist, synesthete, and emerging poet and artist. Her work has been featured in the anthology Re-membering with Goddess: Healing the Patriarchal Perpetuation of Trauma (Girl God Books, 2022) and is upcoming in Allium, A Journal of Poetry & Prose. She currently lives on stolen Mohican and Wabanaki land, now called Berkshire County, Massachusetts, with her family.