Give
by Rynell Andersen Lewis
Sacrifice was numbered in sheep
subtracted from flocks.
First, young, flawless
taken from the ewe’s warmth
to altar of rocks,
then burned:
amber, orange, red.
Babies fall through me, birthed
to return straight to heaven.
My first sucks a sliver-sized thumb
and inhales one last breath.
My second—bigger, sturdier, passes
even faster than his brother.
Dim orange-pink glow of my hospital room
sighs of something too big to hold.
Empty, hollowed inside out,
I return what was not mine to keep.
Share water and blood,
gasp salty floods,
give—
Hold on
and wait for the promise
of wholeness,
filling years
like thick honey dripping sweet
into a waiting vessel—
slow teaspoons of honest light.
