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Heron Clan Reading: January 10, 2021
Folder:
Heron Clan Readings Sunday Zoom
Heart Torn Symmetry
You tore my heart in half
Folded it first
And ripped it
For symmetry.
My equally divided heart
In each of your hands
Slips slowly
To the floor
Where you stomp on it,
Jump up
and
down
on it,
Do a little dance
On it,
Get down tonight,
Smashing it
Like a spent cigarette.
But you pick it up,
Oh my,
To flap jack it
into a
Butter churn
Where you
pulverize it
painstakingly
to butter,
Drawing it out
With a knife
You slather it on
A cracker
And eat it.
Construction Paper Heart
When he sat, working on a gift poem for a beloved granddaughter, when asked,
“Do you want to fall in love again?” without a hesitating moment for thoughts of his companion or with thoughts of his companion to let her know, he says in the voice that speaks poet's words, “I will never fall in love again.”
Her pitter pat heart practically on the plate before her, she watched in horror, the setness of his jaw, as he stared at the loving poem he wrote for his blood. Foul fingers pecking at small keyboards, correcting the lines she suggested were weak, not ever taking the exact words she displayed from her tongue, but twisted them so as to never give her claims to anything of his. His heart, his home, his soul. His life, never linked to her, never acknowledged to her, kept quiet, and for her sake, he says, and slathered his toast with buttery spread, jellied, and opulently flavored for his mouth that dissed her notion of love between them.
Was her hurt by her, was he hurt by the hers, or did she forget to say no, on occasion, even when it was always yes yes yes for her to him. Her heart still laying crimsom on the table looking like a child’s art of feathery construction paper in primary red. The jagged edges pulling apart it in a series of tears and tears, Pixar animated movements across the porcelain, China, white, logo hidden. No one would see them there. The red paper oozing to a fluid liquid state of succumb
He Said I Shared
He said I shared the color of his mother’s eyes,
And would I like to see?
A photo perhaps
From under his bed,
A walk to the shelf
For an album of dust?
Perhaps.
No, the eye that was made for
And worn by, the her
That bore him.
The Italian side,
of brown eyes
Gone to hazel with age.
The one lost in an accident
Found in her son’s closet
Decades and eons later,
Following her demise.
I declined.
