You see a woman holding a chalice, and think, “she looks proud.”

They say that a chalice is the woman’s weapon, or her gift.

The gift she brings to the lost traveler, burning her bare feet on the sands.

The weapon she bears upward with a steady hand, her cloak on the wind like a standard.

And what you do not know

Is that she squeezed herself for you, drop by ruby drop,

Into her chalice.

Tags: alina zaria, poetry