Four thousand times an hour, or more,
Each day and night, since I was six
Weeks old inside my mother’s womb,
My trusty heart (a metaphor
Of what?) with ceaseless double clicks
Has beat. Click-click. Click-click. For whom?
And you, my Lady, not before,
Or during, did a single drug admix,
Or cause one click-click to resume;
Nor, when God wakened me and swore
By his own name and crucifix
That my new heart would live and bloom
Forever, were you guarantor
Of this, nor seed. Did you affix
A root? You wear a cause costume.
And yet you have a noble chore,
And God decides, not heretics,
When, after birth, beyond the womb,
You serve. And whom. You never bore
My germination. Candle wicks
Do not cause fire, though all assume,
Since you were there, and since you wore
Your guise, that you can do such tricks.
But no. Whatever you exhume
Lies breathless, Lady, on the floor.
You prop your corpses up with sticks
Like men, and make the air a tomb.