The Hearts

one of my favorite hearts
just fell out of my arm
onto the filthy floor
and when I retrieved it
another toppled from the top
of my head, two more
from their perches on my shoulders
and there I was scrambling, on my knees
snatching them up before they were past
the five second rule and no longer
fit for consumption.  only the original one,
number one out of fifty-five or so,
stayed tethered inside me
though it did flop a bit and bang against
the sternum as I fumbled about.  why
do I need all these hearts, I rage,
it’s not like I need them to beat for me,
I’ve only fashioned them for the pleasure
of calling them mine, use them to hold
overgrown emotions as if they were vases
full of blooms soon to be dead.  I toss them
aside, put them in the closet though I know
I’ll pull them out again, as they are mine
and never belonged to anyone else,
merely splits from the first, the one I use
to push a pulse around, the one heart
I protect against all comers, these supplements
were only there for protection, little urns
still holding the things I refuse to allow entrance
into me, compartments for those memories
that made and still make them race and pound until
they fall from me and gather
the indelible dirt from the ground on which I barely
can walk anymore.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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