Today, the Antichrist
Will be born,
I was told.
So I thought
I had better ready myself
With a stake under my pillow,
Or a crucifix in this corner
Or that;
Furnish our house with symbols
Christian and Holy and
Asexual.
In the shower I scrubbed myself
Clean

Until bones were jutting
Out of my flesh, and
Blood
Was whirlpooling down the drain.
I smiled.
I am immaculate.
I took a cab fifteen minutes up
North
Where a handsome man promised me
Safety.
He was as handsome
As I was
Ugly,

And he,
Handsome as he was, validated
My ugliness
With a lie:
"Do not come near me.
You are the Antichrist."
I welled up.
"The Antichrist is yet to be
Born today," I pleaded.
"I am immaculate."
Disbelieving, he shoved me back
Into the cab and had me
Driven

To a gutter
Where a filth-soaked stranger
Turned me into a
Woman
And got me pregnant.
I was yet to absorb the
Entire turn of events when I
Was sent back home,
Writhing
In pain, in regret
Like any other woman in labor.
And there it was, emerging from
Between

My legs:
Its head.