Ekphrastic poem

The nails you drove in still remain there. The scars are there and the wounds from the nails. My body, the site of numerous wars. If you want to know the aftermath of war just study it. You blasted a hole in me through my centre vertically, but see; I have grown a steel spine to counter it. Look in and through me and at my breasts, I proudly bare myself and it all for you to see that like my face and eyes, every inch of me is proud and screams of my ability to survive anything, childbirth, abuse, marriage, harassment, sex, operations, tissue tears, skin fissures, ligament misalignments, rape, beatings, burnings, domestic abuse, stretch marks, broken bones, nothing can break me or defeat me or bring me down permanently in body, mind, soul or spirit. I am the woman, bride of Christ, the church militant, the ecclesia triumphant, I am Frida, radical, extremist, feminist, fearless and free, a bird like my thick, dark, black eyebrows, witch, here I too stand. Nothing can shake me, my feet well planted in earth, my head framed against the background of the louring sky, imprisoned in white bands that show I am the female saviour still in swaddling bonds and bands. I am she who paints my pain, hurt, grief and complaints to ever accuse you to drag you down to hell while I remain firmly entrenched in victory over death and make it immortal. Amen.