When I come

in the room

it comes with

me that long

slow thing that

sings and sings;

And, yes, I fear

it now, its yellow

face, its great hibiscus

heart–there is no magic

that can save me

from its bright blooming.

And, so, this wounding

is a piece of you,

a piece of me, grafted

on a paper tree;

you died for love

and I was born bereft–

a man with a cross to bear,

a woman with a heart that dared.