Heart has no metaphor.
The rhythm is all, a beat that kneads
its tenderness into each creature
with an open wound,
drumming a circle of comfort for the half moon,
a circle to gather the ebbtide of a thousand suns,
a circle that widens this moment into timelessness,
awakening your ancestors,
all their troubles and blessings.
A drum circle in the heart to hug the unborn
like sand grains melting back to Now,
this bubble of hot glass blown into its globe
of fragile beauty.
What your heart beats is not blood only
but the Milky Way, wild honeysuckle sap,
the DNA of buffalo stirred
into the batter within a cocoon,
from which a herd of winged bulls emerges
stampeding across the rainbow.
What the heart drums is your pain,
folded into the dough of your body,
when risen, punched down to rise again
into the warm loaf at the oven's core.
What your heart beats is the ocean of motherhood
saturating the placenta, regarded as waste
by the man but food by the earth.
It beats the plasma in a plastic catheter
hanging over the precious struggle
of parted lips that yearn for one last breath.
Heart-beaten also the arterial nectar of Gaia,
thick, black, crude.
Do not disdain the mastodon
whose bones were crushed
into a single drop of death for you.
Do not pretend your heart won't hurt,
or flutter, or lie moist and fibrilant
in the ashes of your cremated flesh.
Sometimes your heart feels like
a hermit organ living in a cave,
pouring the luster of her solitude
into a thousand trillion cells, those tiny mirrors
of distant nebulae, rhymed by your pulse.
Do not imagine that your heart is in
a higher realm. There is no higher.
This is the realm where all worlds kiss,
and finally all beams bend into a sphere.
Nor imagine that your heart can fly.
For the sun has melted these wings
so that you might fall, again and again,
into this vale of salted bones,
where Way itself is lost,
and the heart is the only tavern.
All wanderers rest here, you also
repose, and drink, and listen to their stories,
and hear the silence between the stories,
as you gaze into the fire.

Photo: Dizzy Hearts Tavern by ExitMothership on DeviantArt

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