The Host

At night, I peel back

the layers and stare at my raw

throbbing heart. I marvel at

the stutters between beats, at

the swelling leading up to the

blood being released into

tired veins. I admire the stains,

the scars, the pockets of darkness

as well as the splashes of light.

I wonder what it would be like

behind someone else’s chest.

Would it struggle to maintain

momentum, would it prosper

in a new body, one not filled

with memories and “cures?”

Would it carry on in the same

staccato rhythm or find a new

more fervent song to sing?

Some nights, I fantasize

about ripping it right out from

behind my ribcage, its dank prison,

squeezing it through the bars,

break it free from its cell.

I fantasize about how cold it would

feel against my fingertips,

how frigid, like touching dry ice

with bare hands. It’s an igloo

housing every wish and dream

that even entered its quarters,

somewhere deep inside the

core there is a fire ablaze in

the hearth and a distant memory

is warming its hands over

the flames.  I fantasize about

snipping the arteries away,

of uprooting the mass and replanting

it somewhere safer,

less fragile, somewhere that

it could  feel the ocean breeze,

thick with salt, somewhere

I have never been nor would

even think to go.

Would my heart be rejuvenated?

Would it last so far from the

soul it is so accustomed to?

Would I?

I’ll never know.