Four & a quarter years
my heart’s been a fist. Clenched
so tight
no amount of massage
allows memory of uncurling,
lets fingers seek interlace.
Four hundred something
thousand souls –
the other marker of the day: gone.
Most passing without skin-to-skin touch,
contagion forcing isolation….
Tonight, my heart is lungs. My hands
a respirator: forcing breath by gentle squeeze.
(there must be a softness coming; I need for there to be)
My heart is teeth: bared, rictus-grinning,
jaw aching for relief.
My heart has forgotten how to be a heart. My heart
turns tears to so much steam. My heart
begs this ‘fist’ to be: chrysalis
begs opening,