Tell us of a bypassed heart beating in 12C,
how the woman holds a strangerís hand
to the battery sewn in beneath her collarbone,
and says feel this. Tell us of the manís ear
listening across the aisle, hugging itself,
a fist long since blistered by blaze.
Outside, morning sun buckling up.
Inside, twitching bonesacks of bat, birdsong
erupting as light cracks the far jungle canopy.
Ten thousand feet below ours, a grey cat
tongues the morningís butter left out to soft.
Last night we broke open the sweet folds
around two paper fortunes. One said variety.
One said caution. The woman in 12C would hold that
her heart needs its hidden spark, but the man shows
how some live the rest of their lives with half a face
remembering its before expression. Who was it
that said our souls know one another
by smell, like horses?
About this poem:
"Whenever I struggle to feel connected to the other human travelers that share this planet, it helps to remember that we all get to (have to) live inside these variously broken (beautiful) bodies.††
Whatever I pretend to understand about intimacy and distance (and about poetry) starts there."