Emptying

Before the pocket, a newborn kangaroo 
           is only the size of a lima bean. After birth, 
it climbs by itself, untutored, handhold by 
           handhold, up the hilly crest of its mother's 
body and into the pouch where somehow
           it knows the milk is waiting. Instinct can be
explained like this, I suppose—otherwise, how
          could anyone know where the edge
of the blind forest ends and where you might
         stumble along a trail to be found, find 
your way to a warm bed, have your mouth 
          filled with something warm and sweet? 
Have I always been the mother whose kind
          of love wants to tuft every pillow in the room,  
slide furniture into place before anyone announces
          arrival? My heart hides in voluminous folds
of skin, wipes the creases clean. Deep in the night,
          it hears the sound of its own slow beating,
echoes bouncing off the walls in empty space.