There is this love
unwieldy, unforgiving.
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.
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