Her Keening Heart

Dancing the Universe

Her Keening Heart

It is as though the deepest most hidden part of me,

the most rejected and unlived part

is the one that must find her voice to beseech you,

to find a shining more mesmerizing

than all the bright lights of the world,

a keening more compelling than the sirens of the sea.

She who is most afraid, most shriveled and hungry,

must find that unnamable courage,

from the terror of how far she might fall

in the face of more rejection,

to risk herself and call you unto her,

even though it feels as though

there could be no tomorrow

if she called and you did not come,

if she called and you turned your face yet

to the fruitless world that beckons you away

from her aching and bountiful love.

She has hidden herself so exquisitely

in the folds of my heart,

her gentle aching there a quiet discontent,

the knowing that she deserves more,

softly vented in my weeping,

or spewed forth in purging rage.

What would it be to courageously occupy her,

the one who beckons love, to be vulnerably her,

in all her aching fullness and decades of neglect.

To be home to her, letting her breath her way

into all the filaments of my heart.

What courage I must muster,

to neither preempt your scorn

nor hide the beauty of her face,

for what she might ask of me to surrender.

And I take heed now of how I hide her from you,

she who longs to be seen,

so tightly I hold her hidden, safe from harm,

so precious to me she is,

that my protection has her smothering,

like a caged one, she waits under lock and key,

and it is me who must set her free.

My fear says I can only trust another with her

if I am certain that she will be safe,

but she cannot be loved if she cannot be seen,

and therein lies the great gamble of life,

for to love is always to risk oblivion,

there can be no other way.

I must feed her tender morsels,

ripe and juicy seeds of pomegranate,

full lipped and red blooded fig,

wooing her forth within me,

that she may stand before you,

plump and ripe,

so real and true that you could not turn

for all the treasures of the world,

for you would know beyond a doubt

that it was you that she births herself for,

it is she that you move from and must return to,

and that she sees herself most clearly,

she of the forever and the everywhere,

when the light from your very own heart

shines upon her,

as the Earth blooms

for the Sun.

Lucy Pierce © 2013