Mother and my heart

What is it

that waits to show itself-

uncovering like old scaffolding,

to reveal art,

engraved into my valves?


No, I am not a romantic,

I don’t even know

what love is,

I am a new age woman –

hard. direct. wet.


I am awoke, centered, grounded, and lost

– all at the same time.

I feel like the stains of a cup of coffee on cashmere.

So sure of its existence,

and yet, so utterly nauseated by it.


But I still know

this is about my heart,

and its functions,

the cerebral and the uterine,

the utopia-n and the real.


So when mother says “be brave”,

there is a relief;

like upon listening,

the break up song

of an old sagging relationship.


There is an unlocking.

Yes, there is a crack

in the concrete

the self has so nicely



But the bird-of- the-heart is still afraid,

she has lived in the prison

 far too long,

her wings are frosted.

Cold, hardened and dismembered.


For she does not even

 Remember flying.

Sitting timidly, at the edge of her prison

she just watches,

other birds in flight.


But now, at the crack of every dawn,

she whispers,

“be brave, be brave”,

and the heat of her whisper,

seems to be melting the ice.




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