Something about us told with a guitar

There’s something about feelings that the shark has not divorced from the sea. 
something about the lily that she must seek butterfly even at wartime.
In mimicry, I take time reading your name backwards: i-h-c-a-r-a-m-a—
 as a mark of delay in the event that will tear us apart 
The truth is, at war, I leave for you, my softest part, home.
because home is a woman painting a house at peace. 
& a woman isn’t a room arranging a bed into a talking drum.
i know this from 12 women who love me from the backdoor.
Flee the window when the house is burning from the front.
So, tomorrow, I don’t know what to eat, but I will be healthier than a lush meadow having a dove home.
because water assumes more shape in the mug that doesn’t know brokenness, the way the gun looks more innocent in the hands of the civilian.
It takes love to hide chickens beneath their mother & still run apart from the man who calls for sacrifice. 
ours is a feeling—a fig maintaining root through layering—
a testament that our hearts are extended catapults 
always drawing back to the origin