This Black Heart of Mine
A Shadowland Poem
Freely given to most
at most times.
I have received it back
at most times
not in the same condition.
Deep contusions
bruises
and lacerations.
Very few have the tenderness
to hold a heart.
I cup it.
Staring.
Wondering if it has the strength
to be handed off once again.
I examine it.
Have the sutures fallen out?
I brush my thumb
across viscous ooze
the way you press
the fine hairs of an eyebrow
into place.
Firmly yet delicately.
The moisture the only cushion
between bruising.
This black heart of mine
darkened over
years and loves and moves
and losses has not grown callous
or firm or bitter or resentful.
Dark from more life more breath
deeper breaths of hope
like blood from the recesses.
The marrow love
sludge gurgling from the wellspring.
The soul spring.
A babe so deeply colored
upon arrival.
Born again to love again
to face the cruelty
of wanting again.
Scarred yet healing.
Charred still beating.
Molting.
Wild wolf child heart.
Lost and shimmering.
With veins and tributaries
to shuttle longing and impermanence.
Pumping against my hands
I hold this heart
between us.
You can hear it.
I see your eyes
looking down.
Your hands
slowly coming together.
Cupped up
to receive the gospel
of this heart.
I step forward.
Years and tears
tremoring through
these inky fibers.
I hover my hands.
Placing atop yours
rotating my palms out.
My soul’s organ pause sticks
until release
settling against the lines
of your palms.
My hands are clean.
No stains.
I breathe.
Eyes darting from yours
to your hands to my heart
to your eyes to your smile.
Trust static buzzes
between us.
You see me hold me.
This black heart of mine.
