A while

While at the heart of many poems is a voice, individual, specific, that speaks, or sings,
I'm thinking of a poem whose core is built around not face, or mouth, but cell.
Ring. Two spirals built around the idea of whatever it is the body must be made of.
A construction of a world. That did not begin with a word.
That did not begin, at least, with an "I". But constructed it.
I used to think to have a heart attack was to be shot in the heart by a stranger.
A hooded figure, whose face was unseen, but whose shape we remembered.
Another nightmare: in the park, two men, and my mother.
And my inability to protect her. Hiding while they take her away.
It is a terrible thing to wake up one day with an ache.
I have suddenly discovered what it is, that will make me happy.
And I believe in it.