Believe me, the body is cleaved the same
as the devil’s foot, the split
too large to view
from the ground. As the earth’s curve
refuses our clinging when for years
it refused to reveal its warp. I tell
my husband, place your hand here
between my mother’s jaw I’ve inherited
and the sickled neck of my father—
Here, bring an offering
of warmth to the boned caverns
which only sink deeper
after rain. He loses his grip
to the quiet of night. I keep watch, keep
returning his sleepy fingers to
my chest. I’ll teach someone so they know
how it aches. To carry home
both the Spanish ships and the cradleboards
splintering under their stern as they crush
the coast open. To contain both
the ransacked room of the living and the cache
of blood which fills it.