Coaxing the heart to heal itself

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!

O hai, you were saying?