It does not matter

if it is common,

it is common,

but an eagle does not fly

higher or farther

for a rock fast nest,  

holding fish

in bloodied talons,

a fox, cornered while

dogs circle and wait,

does not have more

ferocity.

Once at the shore you waded in

too far, and I knew,

though my back was turned;

I know your every turning,

as if you sung to me beneath

the waves, the way whales do.

It does not matter

if this love is simple,

it is simple,

but a bear hiding cubs

beneath branching roots

is not more inexorable.

I am no more resolute

than every woman

who lies down

and does not rise until

there are two, but there is this

love, unflinching.

It does not matter if it breaks,

it does break,

I am rent, torn, put asunder;

but not more than a cell

divides—

not more than a cocoon

surrenders.