...and somewhere inside
behind the tongue and cheek
beneath the eyes caked and staring
above the wretch and tumble rough
between the bars and aluminum cladding
amongst the hells and palisades
before the glass and animals caged
hung from star points and butcher nails
floating the chum on oar and skin sail
fuller than an honest birth's hips and
torn in more twos than the same
apart from the ash and the iron poker
separate from the destroying ember and
more than the flame
beyond the guile and less than the rage
toward the hymn and
under the quiet water
inside the blood wet threads pulled tight
divorced from the passage of
time into night
riding the whorls and ruing the day and
touching the edges of blue and yellow fire
the blade resting ready
in the tented pyre.
There is beating the heart
of a mother.
