Bittersweet Keepsake

You are unlocking my doors,
Peeling the skin from my chest

digging deep to discover

my pulsing heart.
And it’s beating with a fervor.

Lust in my eyes, glittering in the lowlight.
A mirror of past mistakes.
oh, it’s an ache in my fingers, a sigh in my belly.

We exchange hearts, oh:
I might say the feel of a brand new one
(thumping behind my left breast) is strangely bittersweet.
It’s yours, you know, hidden beneath
muscles and tendons and flesh,

atoms and palpable, bitter melodies.

And when I set my hand
to feel my familiar rhythm,
It’s your skin beneath the plum of my fingers.
I pluck them away,

like tiny birds chittering.

At night I’ll dissolve,
surrendering to hard alcohol, dreams, headaches, regret.
But you will faithfully stay,
a keeper of hearts,
guarding their thick pounding on the bed.

My shell has escaped.
It will fly up-up-up—like a cheap helium balloon
and burst on low-hanging clouds and sleet.

Baby, my sweet daughter,
sweet small flesh in my arms,
I cannot keep you for much longer.
You’re a keepsake, you know.

I didn’t love you, you know,
Until I met you.
But we’ve stolen each other’s hearts
and we’ll never
get

them


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