Poetry: "My Heart, My Love," by Mark Langton

MY HEART, MY LOVE

My heart, my love, is in your hands,

though it still seems I have to shoulder

your breast, too, the many fears that you reveal

to very few, all that your heart demands

of love. Though mine is no less bolder,

or less certain, are not these things we feel

enough? Damn you, it still seems I must

somehow atone to earn your trust.

No matter what I put down on the page,

in ink, or blood, my heart, my breath

must still confront my daily rage,

condemned. Like the lady in Macbeth,

I wring my hands, but can't rub out

that spot of blood. This giddy doubt.

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