Between her breasts find the mourning, a warm field
plowed by burials and shaken with screams of rage
long settled, long silent, now finely mixed and healed
into her skin. Beneath, her heart in the cage 
that keeps it beating, sounding the want of a child,
or hope for its father, or desire to grow wild
(yet keep peace with her mother). With her alone 
will you hear, this close, the breaths between
                                                            your own.

Deep in her, strike the old sorrows into flame
and hear strange cries of joy and pain in the same
release. Study her dark, wide eyes as they fill
with laughter, sending this generous warning:
“The sun may burn all right, through its chill and 
spacious night, but on earth it finds a morning.”