Aubrey Jane Ryan

Birth of Cain 

Her first pains
are bright: sharp stars
and the light
over cracked plains.
She roams the crop rows,
eyes the breaking
of earth by such small
stalks, and feels
the bow of her body
drawn taut. She’s
never forgotten
her father: a razor
of sun behind a door.
He made it all, so he
makes this: the fist
she curls beneath: the blaze
and pause. Near the end,
she finds a place: blank:
the waters of the earth
cresting with her call.
From below, a dark thing
rises, leviathan whole, full
of the world he brings.