SHAUNA M. MORGAN
I reach for you, curled image,
latched in the gulf of my belly,
I pray that my body keeps you
corded to me in blood. You are mine.
I feel you in the ache of my breasts,
imagine you resting there, little hands
against the springtime scar, still burgundy,
reminding me of another possibility
excised and unberthed.
But we are already moored in spirit.
You had heard me calling for you,
felt my longing across time,
sent by Faith to fill a hollow,
carry a heaving line on your flutters.