Today's poem is by Hayden Saunier
Performing Heart Repair Surgery at 2 A.M. While Asleep
See, there's no blood.
The skin is a smooth waxy placket
that softly unbuttons.
Your breastbone splits neat
as a squeeze-open coin purse,
which is lucky because your terror of knives,
their cold shine
and quickness, their proof that time travels in only one way
hasn't slammed shut the dream doors
allowing your hands to hold your chest wide
as you sit up in bed
and dump out the small frightened fist
that's your heart
in your lap.
No surprise here.
You remember each scar, every mend, bite, and sizeable
chunk torn away or cut out,
shoveled back, re-attached, re-inflated,
but what makes you gasp
are the tools you've kept stashed, and their weight,
falling out of your chestpocket knife, pliers,
a glue gun, two shrimp forks, electrical tape,
black and yellow, wire snips, needles and twine
just in case, just in case, you need them again.
No wonder hearts hammer their hurts at the dark water margins
of sleepit's the weight of repair over years
and this lightness
you feel once you lift your heart
back into place, seal your bones,
smooth your skin: that's the dream.
Copyright © 2017 Hayden Saunier All rights reserved
from How to Wear This Body
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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