Photo by Taylor Durrer on Unsplash
Jen Stewart Fueston
I quiver in bed-dark, heart chasing itself,
ringed like a caged bird or a captive, netted
and baited and bound. But the heart is just
a muscle that forces floods to flow in channels, into
filaments circling through tissue that is mainly meat
and bone and bright blood.
His matched heart, a prism, splits
my daylight into blue-flame and all I think of is surrendering
to what carries us away, this hot exhale of air that bears us
between flat mud and flared stars. And how we orbit their fires,
clutched close in the fist of a dun earth, longing to burn.