I walk slowly toward the mouth of it
knowing behind the dim teeth, wind,
winter opening
the season brutal and holding
its fist silent against my heart.
I travel to the anus, to the small wound
at the navel, to its eyes like wet dough
in the skull. Anywhere I can enter it, I go
like a maggot licking the last warmth
from the inside of a dead body, insisting
that the cure for the heart
is in the insistence of the cure.
Insisting that at the center of winter
lurks winter's own deep heat.

11/15/2005

Posted on 11/16/2005
Copyright © 2025 Marina Dawn