Sunlight was defined by her face and voice
cooing me gently onto the matress.
That voice, that voice boomed pulses in my wrists,
even now, just as tiny as the birds
chirping in the sunlight. It was morning
love as she unwrapped the bundle surely
but slowly and - surprised at my naked
heart - i wailed. The wilderness in the cry
I think she knew. It echoed the bundle
she once was. Half a century ago
her light spun, tumbled and left her for death.
But her voice, her voice that boomed pulses through
her tiny wrists, crept out of binding cloths
stole away from the night, her plight unplucked
and her life unripe. She grew strong and worked
her wrists to knots, her eight children in leash
with a rod. One child had harboured a heart
of shredded glass gave birth to her grandchild,
whose heart she exposed now in the sunlight
will in time be dug, stained, broken and cut.
I know she knew. The cry of wilderness
echoed the bundle she once was. Timeless
in her breast, I grow from her wrists and hands.