Dried, red, sand,
Layered in its elevation as far as her eyes could see.
Thicker than dark, dried, red, blood,
A color that haunted her.
Not even the heads of weeds sprang through from the dark, red, bloodied ground before her.
Stripped of its fruitfulness.
Beaten down by the hot red sun,
The land was barren.
Its fertility annihilated.
But she could relate.
Night dreams whispered harshly when she slept,
Vile taunts, hideous laughter at her ludicrous situation.
She waited desperately,
Hoping each night, his seed would finally unite with her seed.
So, she could stop dreaming.
The hatred rasp of the man above her.
The hostile stares of the women in the village.
The pit of her isolation.
Was something wrong... with her?
Him, it could not be, he’d said.
His ability to impregnate, he’d never questioned.
Had she tricked him into marrying an infertile womb, he’d asked?
Tears moistened her eyes.
She’d hoped her empty womb would bring forth the fetus he demanded.
Had hoped last month's beating would have been the last,
And she could rest in peace,
If only for nine months.
Barren, she muttered,
Her head hung low.
What a horrible way to try and bring forth a harvest?
Just like the dried, red, sand,
Which yielded no flowers, no weeds,
Intimidated by the sun.
Her womb produced no embryo.
Closing her eyes, she dreaded the upcoming night.
The scathing words,
The first shove,
The backhand hit,
Her stinging face.
Her plea for mercy.
If only she could deliver the first egg,
So, he could marvel at the results of his impartation,
Her beatings would stop.
Her womb could rest from his brutal attacks,
And her barrenness would be no more.