POETRY
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title
ST.
FRANCIS OF SAN FRANCISCO
POETRY LIKE BREAD
THE HISTORY OF MY HEART
OH
JENNIFER
WE
MUST NEVER HAVE A FIGHT
The
History of My Heart
inspired by robert pinsky
the history of my heart
has yet to be written
she’s afraid to be typecast
pigeon-holed or named a name
she may not identify with again
she has the current task of
chiseling away the layers that want to
make a home in her legacy
her historical skin-full of bruises
but she refuses and screams
“oh mind, you care too much
marking down mistakes
in red permanent marker
looking to avoid those potholes
you inevitably slam into anyway
what good are you?”
the history of my heart
is the trunk of an evergreen
deep circles of pleasure and pain
put your stethoscope ear there
witness the low murmur
all the time speaking
but you never understand
she’s trying to tell you
“i’m afraid of history repeating”
her landscape is
a bump, some hills, mountains and a few valleys
a plateau preceding volcanic eruptions
shaking the framework of her fortress
she has been a tundra and a tidal wave
split continents and drown in her own desire
the history of my heart is a martyr
faith has brought her
back from the dead more than once
after attempted assassinations
poison, beheading, death by lions
she still believes in love, humanity and goodness
some may say it’s unrealistic, naïve
taking up with the wrong kind
some may say she’s too kind
letting the world walk over
her thin, pulsating skin
and yet she inspires those
who’ve lost their faith in magic
and testifies to the existence of beauty
dusting the ground with her song
eating fireflies and exploding a mouthful of stars
the history of my heart is a contradiction
licking her wounds like a beaten alley cat
old lovers lingering like ghosts
go away!
old hurt that wants to shack-up
like moths in the corners
go away! old cobwebs of sorrow
the future of my heart
is that she wants to burn her history
like the cinders of a sage bundle
and transform it into roots and blossoms
sometimes she’s tired
and doesn’t know how to hold her head up
with old weights dragging her down
history is heavy
full of battles, victories, defeats
adventures, labors and leisure
she is tired of looking behind
and wants a future full of joy
she pauses—longing
then remains beating away
red rivers, scarlet lips, fuchsia cheeks
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