The Heart, The Child, The World

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,