Your woman’s body needs no apology,
though its cellular structure may carry
the memory of wounds that wobble
about like dodos. The past is a paradigm
of absurdities, and consideration of such clownish
tragedies requires the levity of laughter, a billowing
sea of tears, or a silence more absolute than black.
It would be easy to curl up into shame
like a crushed spider. It would easy
to lie back like a passive hillside and let another
reap the sweet wheat your heart has grown,
but your still wild territories can neither
be staked or claimed, and within the boundaries
of the astrological network of your atoms,
there are sacred chasms of space more vast
than the distance between galaxies drifting.
written to me by a friend on another blog site.
I invite anyone to try and one-up her :-p