I cut my heart out with a kitchen knife
And threw it in the sea at high tide
because it no longer served me.
I built a boat from gnarled driftwood
to look for it–
but it was plunged in the undertow.
I tread the breachway at low tide
praying to find it
sheathed in hazel seaweed.
Gather it back—
the flopping purple jellyfish
hardly pumping–
let its ventricles dry
in the distant winter sun.
At dusk, I placed it
in the music box the wind broke.
All through night in hushed tones
I implore it
to twirl the miniature ballerina
splayed.
Come back–
I didn’t mean to run
the car in the garage.
I just might need you–
hinging breath for sound.
Ashamed, I evade the salt pond’s
shimmering mirror
in half-light—
setting the clock back
to another twilight
when someone held me
against starlight.
Nothing is forever except forever.
Laughter might disappear
the abyss between y
and z, the ending.
It’s time, finally, to sit
the ghosts down
and tell them everything.
They are afraid for me.
It became so difficult
to breathe.
To find things worth finding.
Then the Book was returned to me.
Crimson stones in my chest
became pages.
Upon reading this, I am still catching my breath, holding it, afraid to let go.
What a gorgeous sentence/comment! Thank you so much for reading and responding. You made my night, Shirley!
I have not had a chance to catch up yet to read it. I’ve been traveling like the 🌝 moon lately, along with distant nebulae.
Excellent on the interplanetary cosmic travel!
I’m finishing up the manuscript this week–yay!!