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,
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,
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.