Lie still. Make their desperate hunt for your heart

beat them frenzied & let them second-guess

your muted tempo as counterfeit for their own.

Press your palm, still learning to unfurl,

to your den's wet beams & steady yourself

against the doorjamb of your lair; it will be time

when it is time. If your mother is a horse—& I am,

I am—let her approach Troy with you still hidden

within. Let her carry you like a bouquet of splinters

in her belly of timber still hot from hatching

at the future for firewood like it was a family tree.

All your life they will surround you, will stalk & strain

to hear that ballad from your canary pipes, will tempt

your quiet cover, will kick the keg of your desire

until it is dented nameless; all your life they will try

to say you are built for something else. It begins now—

so hush, hush: be nothing, just this once.