WoundBefore our bodies were filled with new life.
Before sleep became a thin, gauzy veil
to pass in and out of. Before fear tethered
us to tiny cherubic limbs. Before
we worried about the cartography
of the ever expanding galaxies
of their minds. Before their hearts self-
generating organs. Like the apostle
we could not believe in the wound we’d carry.
Mother-heart. Jagged mouth, and fresh blood
the “O” of pain. Let the connective
tissue grow and cover us with a love
that is greater than doubt.