Artists never seem to paint the heart.
I imagine too much paint would be needed
to cover the holes or even out the scarred margins
of most of the things
most of us spend
most of our lives
trying to forgive or maybe just forget.
I pin mine to my sleeve now
because it kept falling through the hole
where my inner child used to live
before she chewed her way out
taking the sugar and spice and everything nice.
She left a note with the snakes and snails saying it wasn’t me
she needed to see other people.
Last time I looked,
held the ragged thing to the light
it was still beating.
There were cat hairs, grass bits, an Elvis earring, and buttons from clothes I’d never owned
stuck to its skin.
I expected him to run
the day it first came out of hiding,
back to someplace where things like that aren’t legal.
But instead he pulled off the tamale pin on his truckers hat
(He keeps his there to remind him to think before feeling)
There were dog hairs, 2 marbles, a Hotwheel, and a love note to the Tooth Fairy
fixed all together with Big League Chew.
These days we’re learning to draw each other’s faces with nothing but cheerios
and if we threw our hearts at a wall,
they would break into 100 butterflies we trained to play kazoos