My feelings do not dance above my head,
they flutter inside my chest, at my center instead.
I press a hand against my ribs
to keep the worries from breaking through.

This is where my children rest
like Mary's Jesus at her breast.
Women everywhere call the angels
to protect their precious young.

It pumps its stream of reddish gold
open... shut... hold... fold,
dutiful servant, always alert,
standing sentry over its charges.