When the heart is given, a dagger points
to that tender home, a dagger in your hand.
Do not grow careless, beloved. This giving appoints
you mother to my pulse and the grand
safe-keeper of my pain. A simple sign
draws blood and is hostage to your smile.
Mercy then must be your study. And mine.
Yet, I have a shield which saves me all the while
and sets you free. For I have become fierce
in injury and make it my medicine,
concocting wholeness of whatever appears
in the house of incidents I wander in.
Your kindness then is the substance of my trust,
but if it must, let the dagger thrust.