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,