If Southern Trees bear strange fruit
The Soil in the South bears blood roots.
Of the thousand tiny wombs split open and hidden in the shallow earth.
Bodies so small you could mistake them for stillborn, or still birthing.
Bare Flesh so irreverently torn you can barely make out its name ‘little girl’
The soil here sprouts bushels of hair.
Milk tooth stones.
Flowers that look like tiny shoes.
Covered in plasma and polka dots.
The ground here smells charred and acrid.
The ground here grows nightmares.
At the epilogue of this world, we will wait.
For them to resurface.
The dry bones that hold memories of endless pain
And endless longing for the loves of childhood.
The will break out from the unmarked graves.
They will come running with their head wounds
With their torn and bloody thighs.
With their small, deft hands they will please please bring the reckoning
These half buried Valkyries.
Relegated to artefact
We bury our blood histories like dogs.
We will await justice from an army of small, angry gods.
We have buried the revolution underground.
Kelly- Eve is a writer and feminist activist.