The oil-well sits below her stomach
And churns out good news every month.
I forget ‘it’ requires check-ups;
Routine rendezvous between the workers and the higher-ups-
MUST pencil that in some time.

Cogs turn and she wrenches
Forwards and backwards,
The cleft note of her back’s arch
Humming to life in the prison
Of her cloyed throat
The busy whir of an electric fence
Willing to keep the bad things out.

There she lies
No light
No life
In a pit as dark as her womb
Tight as a key, bitter to the break
Legs locked—
Foetal.
She realises that to prevent the worst
You must sometimes become it.

If we were all in the pit it would not be as dark
And our eyes would light the way,
Colonies of fire.
But half are in the ground
And half are in the sky
Gazing down
Sympathetic eyes mocking our birthing sheets.
My back is broken as I breach to glare
And my eyes are closing.