I'm holding the bud,
feeling its belly for swelling,
for ripeness.
I peel back the green husk and here,
here;
is my own heart.

Wet and warm,
heavy in my hands
I hold it against my ribs,
like a newborn baby and
watch it beat with blood.
I fill with its softness, its racing
its ache and tire.
I shift it from hand to hand
balancing and unbalancing
my weight,
my crimson faith,
my swelling strength.

Still growing, still learning
its limbs and how to
move them.
Practicing the timed beating
of patience
and then forgetting it.
Whirring,
in silence.
Stilling,
in commotion.

Careful of getting too
empty,
giving too
much. Learning,
how to bleed
and stay
full
how to fill
and have
emptiness.
Learning how to carry death,
how to carry birth,
filling with oxygen,
remembering what breathing is
worth.