“I want words which are scalpel sharp
and shiny; poems keen enough to gut a fish
and clean it. Poems labelled not for domestic use.
The kind you keep on the top shelf
away from the thieving hands of children.

And I want to feed you warmly scented words;
small loaves of wholemeal bread
so you will remember the kitchens where you stood
in a slant of sunlight and listened to the radio
crooning somewhere above.
I want to rock you with my mothering songs.

I want my poems to fly out of your pockets---
a troupe of magician's doves, somersaulting in the air,
a perfect explosion of soft fireworks.

I want them to follow you;
like Valentine's cards or bad cheques
constantly re-addressed.

These poems are birthed from some deep place.
They wear that bruised look of the newborn.
They will find their way into your sleep
with their naked hands and greed.
They will come to you like a lover, saying:

let me bring you inside
into the circle
made by my tongues of fire.”