the poetry of Charles Fry

15 February 1996

my heart

I have this little heart hidden in my chest.
It is red.
Or that is what they tell me.
I must never remove the lock to look inside and see.
So I examine the wooden box; the varnish is still so new.
Not too many scratches or cracks.
Just carry it around, they tell me.
Watch where you're going and do not trip and nothing will go wrong.
Well, I tried so hard -- especially at first.
But then they kicked me and threw rocks.
Dodge and run and try to persuade them but no one can hear me.
I know something is broken inside because it rattles,
as if at the next step it will all burst open.
And how do I know that nothing's fallen out already or been stolen while I was sleeping?
I can not always watch my box.
Once I tried prying it open with a crowbar, and now the lid is warped.
But something red did seep out.
Not much, and it stopped when I hugged it close to my body.
And the next day I sewed a small patch on my shirt to cover up the stain,
so I can not really show you.
Just believe me when I say that it was red.

Though not bright and shiney like a wagon,
but rather weathered and worn like the moon will be.

Copyright © 1996 Charles Fry