a description of my heart for those who try

My heart is a mother without arms

watching as her child flails

in the water

cries out Maama! Maama! Gurgles Maama!

drowns.

My heart is a lone hunter—

riffle thrown over a shoulder,

stalking love, stalking poetry—

with the loneliness of a long-distance runner

running from its aches

pattering

failing.

And when love comes calling,

Is anybody home?—

upon rusted hinges, my heart

creeeaaks open a crack

to peep the stranger at the door

and BANGS! closed

in its grief and invisible furies.

I am trying,

trying too

to get into my heart.