My breasts are palm-sized hemispheres, 
                           
relief maps of the mountains of my heart, 
                           
with faint green rivers where travel the run-offs of love, 
                           
and flowers that overwhelm the summits, 
                           
blooming and fading in seasons of lust. 
                           

                           
This is the center of my heart, 
                           
the sternum's grief point, this valley. 
                           
This is the place on the map of me 
                           
where I was held down with a knee, with the heel
                           

of a hand by my professor, 
                           
my boyfriends, my boyfriend, my brother, 
                           
my mountains trampled by bootsoles like weeds.
                           
                                                        

                                                                                                                              
I have to tell you
                           this about the country 
                                                                                                                              
where my heart is planted
                           in bones. 
                                                                                                                              
I have to tell you
                           
                                                                                                                              
I can't bear more weight
                           here 
                                                                                      
where I'm buried in my body 
                                                                                                                              
with what happened.