Ask a Child to Point to the Heart

Ask a child to point to the heart. Ask a Zen master to point to the heart. Ask an indigenous shaman to point to the heart. They will point... to the heart. 

This bloody fruit at the center of the body: they will point to this! For those thirst for life, heart means heart. The heart’s beauty lies in its physiology, not in its metaphysics.

Your heart a red pump, meaty twin-chambered dualist muscle of diastole, systole, in, out, rough shuddering blast site of anxiety and yearning, rage and unspeakable sorrow, well of tears in the desolation of love.

Heart a cosmos of atoms in the darkest cavern of your sobbing ribs, crimson resonance of electro-magnetism, syncopated vibration of very Matter, a field outdistancing its cruciform, yet deeply embodied in your sacred weight.

Heart a locus where all other hearts conspire to be your heart, a hologram among your bones, mingling rays of inter-planetary information through the vacuum in each pulse.

Heart the sinew and neurology of Light, portal to the first Word, embryonic Sun, floating in sea womb of lymph and marrow.

Organ of mere blood, the rainbow spectrum of whose power is rooted in gravity, yet widens into the white empyrean, beyond the elements, ringing as music in a quintessential unstruck bell, chiming every proton out of its star.

This sacrament, this hungering love, this opening wound, your heart…

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