By Jane Tawel
September 7, 2020
I can not hold.
Its beat escapes me,
Like the sound of a diffident drum.
And yet, I long to look somewhere,
to find the source.
In my mirror, perhaps?
Or in the stars or skies,
or someone’s smile?
In the crevices of my childhood,
awash with bits of benevolence
amidst the scars
deeper than the chasms of remembered wounds?
Or does this heart move and bleed apart from me;
a willing and unwilling partner,
a sometimes pacemaker of my soul,
keeping alive that which measures the motions
echoed timelessly and in my time,
in the clefts of consciousness
chalked with crumbs
of stories, myths, and songs?
A heart may be, as one for all and all for one,
for heroes, villains, and all children born?
This heart, hidden in
The girth of eternity —
I want to wrest it
From my chest
And see there in the last moments,
the pulsing light of
That organ that best encompasses
The meaning of myself.
Not half a brain between us;
my heart and I yearn,
Not for grand ideas or vast knowledge,
But for the scratched-out wisdom
That comes only
With the pain of loss,
The shortness of the season,
And the hope of love.
That throbs foolishly
calls to me to free it from
the prison of myself;
opening up riches
from my chest
to bleed its treasures elsewhere.
© Jane Tawel 2020