I loved a rubber doll when I was five
so fervently that I would bite her head.
I always knew the toy was not alive –
my passion didn’t harm her, but it bred
in me awareness that emotions could
be hot and hard to harness or control.
My fondness for Ginnette was only good,
but waxed as violent as vitriol.

And sure I loved the father of my kids,
but not as much as them. He didn’t pierce
my heart with passion like my babies did –
I never felt as burgeoning or fierce
again until each grandchild got a start,
expanding and remodeling my heart.