into a library of toxins
enter the hole-heart boy
on a guanine dice-roll or a meiotic card-shuffle
or god’s fingers poking a womb
“don’t we have it lucky?”
“isn’t it such a shame?”
the scalpel-cut of prejudice is cold and it is vain
numbed by ignorance and lidocaine
the struggle makes the matriarch
crave the pethidine and the dark
but dear, this is a love that beat the odds
making a mother of invention and improbability
damn them to the narrowlands and live
you more-whole-heart-than-them boy