My heart cut from me, cut apart and tossed
into your cradle. I must have raised you
for the hiss of rain splitting a battlefield like glass,
too eager for the sight of Michael’s winged men, a clot
of sword-handed clouds spinning in the sky.
In this beautiful room where I, and not
your mother alone, birthed you. It’s gone black as the backs
of Adam’s eyes. Now you hang by your long hair gathered
under a sundered helmet, dripping rivers of red sweat. You are
too old for this, and yet, too young.
I watch horses walk along the windows.
I watch the headless woman carry urns of water.
I watch the gold throne melt like slime.
I watch my skin leave me like a wife.
I watch the sky turn into blemished sheepskin.
I watch you crawl toward me again.