Womb on Trial

The world wants a scapegoat with stretch marks.
Wants to pin every broken bone
on a bedtime whisper.
Traces every dagger to cradles
It wants the mother to answer
if the blade was breastfed?
Demands the father to confess
to planting knives in the crib.
Now every crime is a family tree.
Every bruise a genealogy.

The world has amputated memory.
It forgets that even a prophet
couldn’t teach his sons
how to lose without bleeding.
It forgets that even love
can rot in the nest
if the world salts it early.
That envy learns to walk by limping,
that unchecked want becomes wildfire.

So, the world names the scar a prophecy,
and still blames the womb for the war.