Mar 29, 2011

To the Heart

Written by Bertha Rogers

Read by Sandy Longhorn

I have taken up residence in the bear’s
black body; the bear’s heart has devoured
mine. I (all my thumping) am diminished.
And the bear grows bigger; his seething face
has absorbed all the day’s light, his clawed paws
are as turbulent as electricity at night.
Heart, the sunflowers have been extinguished
by hurled rays, and I am dead to the day.

They told me I would discover morning,
but here it is always night, though the walls
be red and flowing (blood moves,
genome-smart but knowing not of itself,
all its bodies sequenced and thwarted
though paginated, booked, and shelved).

The bear refuses to read the pages I was.
Spits me out. The blinded blinds move
like flattened smiles in air’s carried currents.
Crows pick out, lay down words between
light’s molten lines. Never forget you!
Never forget your thronged face
, they cry.
The bear is silent, his viral eyes red-hot.

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