It became what were words;
like tape worms in a person,
and poison to the brain—
and Womb-worm I name her,
and she worked like disdain.And writ is the refrain
that God framed together;
yet she put asunder,
with a tongue split in two.She drained in like water,
into weakness that faltered—
and curled around faults,
creating pressure like jolts.What was rock, though frail—
and like shale is brittle—
failed in its age
to bear what she came
to grip and to change.And now, in the form of a saint,
coming in with her thinking—
even as Jannes and Jambres stood—
it shifted and splintered;
and in a moment it split.And falling away,
the fragile part
lay where it landed:
apart, on the side
of a chasm—
opened up wide—
as a mouth
on a valley rift;Dividing what was left
on the side of her disdain;
of Womb-worm
with her willing prey;Leading her away—
her captive led—
weak-willed
and loaded down.And a plain has now become
what of her words remain.
But her mark on that side
has left that rock stained—
as with a die;
darkened by her lie.
