just not possible. it’s not possible that
the heart could heal itself (within days
the way a novel does, metaphorically, or
the way a tree heals the wind as it sways
not likely. not in my lifetime, or yours
will we live to see the human heart sing
the way a pop star does having seen some
bright star warning her that everything
is going. to disappear some day, the way
the soundtrack does when you’re homesick
or the memory of some mean thing you did
slights her, alone on a couch, face slick
with new tears. they almost manage to heal
themselves (save for a salty memory trail
that scars her face so playfully, so sad
like her mother’s handwriting in the mail
that no one else can read. though it flows
for you like the long journey home or rain
like appointments you never meant to keep
the way a strange pulse rescues the pain
from itself. the way a child cries without
even knowing why that familiar face keeps
popping up, unannounced, the way fm radio
dive bombs the day, until a silence sweeps
back. although that’s also impossible, now
the heart can print itself in three ways:
look at it lying there still on the page,
soaking up all those big old cosmic rays!
