—after Lives of the Heart, by Jane Hirshfield
of the mind relinquished long ago their faux fur
and studded shoes, their tattoos and lacquers,
now their adequate bone mass and lubricated joints.
Cannot be used to heat a room, polish leather
or cut stone. Cast no shadow but think
they do. Have never lost themselves to passion
they never grasped anyway, squinting through
reading glasses and smoky footlights.
Are cracked plaster. Clogged gutters.
Seeds the birds have left behind.
Decals easy to peel from the hearts of those
who’ve tried to love them.
Every morning they wake startled
and inexplicably frightened. They push their
tailored, sexless, cooperative selves into
cubicles and conference rooms. They retain
no scent, can neither be traced nor followed,
can neither be made nor unmade.
Are more lucid in their sleep, which is shallow,
than over double-espresso in the sun.
Have no patience for fine print. Are creatures of habit
until a doctor reveals troubled maps inside them.
They clomp through the wildflowers and lush
grasses of August as though crossing hot asphalt
against traffic. None remain still enough to feel
a slow, secret ripening that could be theirs—
the nectar turning, beneath the thickened rind,
its stored sugars to the late October sun.
None let grief bow them down and have its way
before moving on. Every one of them pounds
and pounds at the walls of the one house
that won’t accept them, the one heart, the one
indifferent ear—willful, clenched, not knowing
they are tired, they throw themselves against
that hardness.
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