He is sleeping, his fingers all curled,

his belly pooled open, his legs gathered, still

in their bent blossom victory.

I couldn’t speak of “war” (though we all do),

if I were still the woman who gave birth

to this soft-footed one: his empty hand,

his calling heart, that border of new clues.

May the hard birth our two heartbeats unfurled

for two nights that lasted as long as this war

make all sands rage, until the mouth of war

drops its cup, this bleeding gift we poured.

From Eve