Your heart is not a pump my dear,
but a sacrificial bowl on an alter of bone
filled with the blood of ancestors,
bulls, lambs, doves, wine,
moon-mulled moth wings,
tassels of spider silk,
filings from the whetted
executioner's blade,
glistenings of gristle and
death, voices yearning
for your womb and all the
forgettings of your milk again.
Bear them, let them drink.

Renoir, 'Mother and Child.'