Hearts for the Taking

A poem for men who love wild women.

The Fruitless mulberry that Raised Me

You stand before me speaking of sacrifice

your heart on a platter for my taking

but my heart is not on a platter for men

this heart is a martyr for the land, the sea, the sky and sun

this heart was born to die for life

Did you expect anything different?

when you saw me dancing in those sunflower jeans

could you not tell, then, as my feathery vibrado tweeted among the clouds about

a love affair with the trees

that my heart was never yours? Never mine?

Placed in my chest so that I could gift it away the first chance I had

to the fruitless mulberry that raised me

to the first taste of the salty Pacific as the waves

consumed my bird legs

Have you not known all along?

that this heart is not mine to give

while in the hands on the dying wild

The Salty Waves of the Pacific