The open hand

There used to be a damning fist

clenched round my gasping heart.

Today it lies in my open hand:

I no longer need aching love,

nor madness, nor unreason.

The strength of openness is equal:

this goes past unclenchedness,

past the gripping abysses,

past the urging brightness

for I have conquered my heart.

When I now feel the pain of love

I show it the palm of my hand

for it to nestle within

and curl up into a globe.

Keep still then, heart. This way is best to live.

I have to thank V for directing me to Derek Walcott's poem The Fist.