He planted flowers in her lungs

now she couldn't breathe

for fear of their stems snapping in the wind

Holy hypoxia 

The crown of thorns sat comfortably upon her 

The flesh of her scalp was the perfect sheath for its barbs

In her liver grew fields of wheat and persimmon trees 

His cattle grazed on the grassy plains of her face

The children grew in her heart[land] 

And grapevines twined like tendrils of smoke around her ribs 

Safe from what would happen later 

soon her bones will be hollow

At least there might be an public housing project

For his disciples

In the encystment

her veins were swollen beneath 

the water they now send alongside blood

To keep his plants, and children, alive 

the question is 

was mothering in - his 

nature