mad love is a burden,
all wail and want;
bounce and plunge.
i look into this mother's
face and i look into my wander
to find the flutes of her yearning,
the flock of all her exiled passions
passed on to me the days
in our moments of coitus.
i've looked into that flowing
face a hundred thousand times
and discover again and again
the seeds of my blossoms,
the curls of my own
granite landscape;
the seminal dawn of my re-youth.
present no dull
arguments against the mothers
who, in dignity and truth,
build for you this altar;
they summon strength from
a facility you have no
notion of and from a universe
that has no name.
mad love is a burden,
all vertigo and elegance;
atomic and feeble.
where is it said that
the sun sets in the eyes
of the unforgiven and
the supple mouths of sinners?
that i may rise up in the
morning and witness each
day the one thing that makes
her heart a soundscape to gods.
what binds her to me is in
the corolla of that which we've
made in unison; the seas that
tremble the land are beneath her feet.
but anyway, she divined from
her womb and from her vessels
and from her fibers and from her
fingertips this epoch.
how it is that it happens in
such a glorious way mystifies
all the men of all the ages,
and yet we are still blind comers.
she mingles in that place between
the farthest moon and our nearest
sun, and spreads such delicate
and spacious love that we can only weep.
mad love is a burden,
all bray and praise;
elevation and desires.
my child is a partisan;
he is a victor in battle;
she is a guard against frailty;
he is summon to gods;
she is a play thing among fools.
my lover imbued the world
with our confessions; she laid
at its feet the subtle wish and the
fragrant flowers of a her and a him,
to be champions of their own
virtuous stars and to give unto
all others the jewels of some
fantastic and shocking voyage.
this came from her!
this sprang from her legs
this poured from her eyes
this drained from her mouth
this burst from her arms
like the eternity of light
and expanse of knowing,
this mother let love detonate
upon the sands of life.
and i can but claim to be a
weak witness to the evolution
of her cells, the increase of her
palace, the iron and soil of
her mountains,
and watch as they walk
among the growing fields
of their own harvests knowing
that they do so because of her.
there is heartache in her
dreams, pain in her side
from the extravagant violence
against her fount.
some blame eve
for our expulsions
and for our obscurities and
for our descent
which is foolish
in the face of the truth.
my eve, she failed no one,
but rather sinned against
herself when she took
on the mantle of mother
and then apologized for it.
i stand far from the horizon
and look back toward myself
to check and see if she is there,
the woman who originated men.
she is there, in her coat of shame,
in her smile, in her blood-pain
prowling the distance for predators
who would take from her the
kings and queens that she bore and
she devours them with her pure nature.
mad love is a burden,
all pink and flesh,
breast and womb.
