Totem

To ward it off (whatever it was) or attract it

You painted little hearts on everything.

You had no other logo.

This was your sacred object.

Sometimes you painted around it the wreath

Of an eight-year-old’s flowers, green leaves, yellow petals.

Sometimes, off to the side, an eight-year-old’s bluebird.

But mostly hearts. Or one red simple heart.

The frame of the big mirror you painted black –

Then, on the black, hearts.

And on your old black Singer sewing-machine –

Hearts.

The crimson on the black, like little lamps.

And on the cradle I made for a doll you painted,

Hearts.

And on the threshold, over which your son entered,

A heart –

Crimson on the black, like a blood-splash.

This heart was your talisman, your magic.

As Christians have their Cross you had your heart.

Constantine had his Cross – you, your heart.

Your Genie. Your Guardian Angel. Your Demon Slave.

But when you crept for safety

Into the bosom of your Guardian Angel

It was your Demon Slave. Like a possessive

Fish-mother, too eager to protect you,

She devoured you.

Now all that people find

Is your heart-coloured book – the empty mask

Of your Genie.

The mask

Of one that opening arms as if to enfold you

Devoured you.

The little hearts you painted on everything

Remained, like the track of your panic.

The splashes of a wound.

The spoor

Of the one that caught and devoured you.