To My Mother on My Wedding Day
And my clockwork heart hummed.
You, artisan. Building
my body from scraps and shrapnel.
At night, your fingers traveled
your belly, digging deep
below the taut skin
whirring like cicadas as tissue
rendered gears chunked and clunked to life
until amazing precision. Until symmetry.
Something organic evolved not
rust over the heart.
The clean flow of movement, of discovering joints
brass hinges and knobs for the opening,
the hidden passages,
the endless pumping valves like shimmering
halls. The taste of copper on a bit tongue
as the mouth discovers the sweet musculature
of the word “love”.