Heart

The heart shifts shape of its own accord—

from bird to ax, from pinwheel

to budded branch. It rolls over in the chest,

a brown bear groggy with winter, skips

like a child at the fair, stopping in the shade

of the fireworks booth, the fat lady's tent,

the corn dog stand. Or the heart

is an empty room where the ghosts of the dead

wait, paging through magazines, licking

their skinless thumbs. One gets up, walks

through a door into a maze of hallways.

Behind one door a roomful of orchids,

behind another, the smell of burned toast.

The rooms go on and on: sewing room

with its squeaky treadle, its bright needles,

room full of file cabinets and torn curtains,

room buzzing with a thousand black flies.

Or the heart closes its doors, becomes smoke,

a wispy lie, curls like a worm and forgets

its life, burrows into the fleshy dirt.

Heart makes a wrong turn.

Heart locked in its gate of thorns.

Heart with its hands folded in its lap.

Heart a blue skiff parting the silk of the lake.

It does what it wants, takes what it needs, eats

when it's hungry, sleeps when the soul shuts down.

Bored, it watches movies deep into the night,

stands by the window counting the streetlamps

squinting out one by one.

Heart with its hundred mouths open.

Heart with its hundred eyes closed.

Harmonica heart, heart of tinsel,

heart of cement, broken teeth, redwood fence.

Heart of bricks and boards, books stacked

in devoted rows, their dusty spines

unreadable. Heart

with its hands full.

Hieroglyph heart, etched deep with history's lists,

things to do. Near-sighted heart. Club-footed heart.

Hard-headed heart. Heart of gold, coal.

Bad juju heart, singing the low down blues.

Choir boy heart. Heart in a frumpy robe.

Heart with its feet up reading the scores.

Homeless heart, dozing, its back against the Dumpster.

Cop-on-the-beat heart with its black billy club,

banging on the lid.

Source: Smoke (BOA Editions Ltd., 2000)