When it was new to me, I thought that having children meant
you cut off a piece of your heart, and tucked it raw
into their little bodies,
and they would go off wandering in the world, clueless, clumsy.
Who knows what might happen to them,
I thought,
Who knows what I might not be able to save them from?
My heart torn up and beating, beating,
A living good-luck charm.

Now I look at you, it’s true, you do hold a piece
of her heart from the start of you all tiny
and mewling and flung out weeks too soon,
so small
it barely fit in you; so big
you grew around it, all of you.

Nothing happened to you she could not save you from.

Bless you, you held her heart
you hold her heart.