Poetry

Where do I begin, 
extracting the earth 
from your skin? 
 
The grim reaper 
would wait. I have 
to unwrap the gifts― 
 
digging out the roots, 
peeling off the bark. 
The time stands still. 
 
An exit wound 
will receive the unborn 
daughters. 
 
Mother dust will 
return the name 
of annihilator.