Out in the world, the child
cries for the mother
as the wound cries for salt
as the lover cries
for her unrequited lover
as the ice cries out
for melting in the spring.

My heart is a spring
that pumps red blood.
I would give my child,
my girl child, my daughter
the vision of a mother
who does not flinch
when the heavy heel of man
comes down,
who loves the penis
when it pumps rich red blood
but values the wholeness
of her heart
above that battering organ,
that dumb implement,
which can so easily turn
from kind to cruel.

My heart is out in the world
like an orphan howling
on a street corner.
I want a warm, safe place
to hide my books, my child,
my heart
that is scarred,
seamed like a belly
which has given birth
to an imperious baby Caesar

but still,
despite its bursting fullness,