Sometimes you feel
like a violent earthquake
lodged inside this tiny space
you passionately refer to as
-
the opening being a tissue paper flower
so delicately framing
the dark, endless center
(if you probed deep enough
you'd find
my heart beating
in patient rhythms
waiting upside down
beneath my left breast)
Sometimes I'm afraid
you'll get stuck in there
somewhere
and I'll have to call my mother
scream into the phone "How
do I get it out of me?" She'd
probably laugh
then break the connection
(if you searched long enough
you'd find
a broken chain
of paper dolls with minds
full of passion and miracles)
Sometimes you'll ask
brave lover of mine
if it was as good for me
as it was for you
did the oceans roar
the trees sway, the heavens sigh
you look into that space between
ask if I felt the earth move
(if you dreamed hard enough
you'd find
me alone in this room
in this bed you built
trembling beneath you)