Hold My Beating Heart

It’s Tuesday 

And I feel immaterial again. 

Like a dusty lace curtain 

That has crinkled

And yellowed

From too much time 

In the sun. 

I’m sitting on the floor

Picking at the carpet,

Vines of green thread

Unraveling

Between my fingers,

Slipping into my pockets,

And biting at my skin. 

You call me down for tea,

But it’s hard 

To drag myself 

Away 

From the shadows dancing 

On my closet door

And the spider

Waving 

Three wispy 

Feet at me

From his hotel in the corner.

So,

By the time I get downstairs,

The kitchen is empty.

And the earl gray 

Has gone 

Cold.

It’s April, of course,

With a slight breeze 

And a strong sun

So we’re headed to the farmer’s market

On east 36th

To pick up 

Zucchini 

And grapefruit. 

I’m thinking about jazz 

And biscuits with butter

And wondering if a caterpillar 

Digs his own grave. 

You’re wearing your favorite jeans

With the blue seams 

And the big loops

And I want to tell you I notice, 

But my tongue is too heavy 

From wishing, 

From wondering 

If I am 

Your favorite, 

Too.

We pass pink tulips nestled in brown paper, 

And a little dog 

With a crooked ear

Gives us a yap. 

You’re pointing at the cherry tomatoes

and I’m rocking 

Back and forth 

On my toes,

Laughing, 

And telling you 

They remind me 

Of buttons. 

You give me a nudge and 

I get a slight shiver. 

I wonder what you’d say 

If I ever 

Got around 

To  

Telling you

That I think God must be 

Awfully lonely

And I worry  

He wouldn’t like me all that much.

That I don’t think I’ve ever seen him, 

And I’m not sure

I ever 

Will. 

You decide you’d like a bit of

Toast and jam 

And I decide I’d like a hobby. 

So while you inspect 

The preserves

And chat with the 

Dimples and smudged apron,

I think to myself that 

Perhaps I’ll take up juggling 

Or perhaps calligraphy 

Or tap

Or Being Okay. 

Now Joan 

And her daughter 

From the bookshop 

Are greeting us 

With grins 

And the newspaper.

I like them like I like the rain, 

And I lean in 

To hear them gab

About the dentist

And the florist

And the shape of the lawn.

But today 

I can’t quite listen 

Because

I’m too busy staring at my fingernails

And wondering

How long it’s been 

Since I last  

Touched 

Mud.

I hand you a penny

From a crack in the sidewalk. 

And linger 

Near 

Your sleeve.

I twist my mouth 

To keep 

From saying 

How I’m scared that one day,

I’ll be washing dishes 

And my heart will 

Plop 

Right out of my chest.

That it will roll around on the ground

And shimmy itself 

Under the cabinet, 

Befriending the dust 

And the cobwebs. 

How I’m scared I’ll look at it 

And it’ll look back at me. 

Blinking, 

Blinking. 

Bruised and bloody like a plum. 

And it won’t 

Leap back into my palm. 

And I won’t 

Stoop to pick it back up. 

Instead, 

It will lie there 

For months, 

Rotting near the floorboards

And I will stand with it, 

Peering all the while,

Forgetting my name 

And my hair

and my mum.

And yet, 

I’ll turn back to the dishes 

As though 

Nothing 

Has happened

Lest the

Warm water 

Run 

Cold.

I wish I could ask you

How you like 

Your spaghetti

And 

About the scar on

Your pinky

And 

About your 

Aunt. 

But most of all, 

I wish I could ask

If you saw it there, 

Beating madly

On the splintered wood,

Would you 

Pick it up

And brush it off

And

Stitch the hole 

In my skin 

Back together

With rosemary 

Twine?  

You reach over

And pinch me

And I’m back on east 

36th.

You’re offering me your

Blackberry toast

And nodding towards the pigeons

And I’m listening to 

The windchimes

That dangle from

The awning of Ms. Ann’s. 

And in this moment, 

Right here, 

I can’t keep 

From grinning

Because 

When you touch my hand,

I know, I know.

I know that you’d 

Pick up 

My rotten plum heart

And give it a little kiss

And put it back in my chest

And tell me 

To meet you 

At the farmer’s market 

When 

Its Tuesday

Again.