One day I heard her say:

“I have a dreamy kitchen.”

I pictured pots and pans hanging above

an old-fashioned stove, a light blue and white checkered

tablecloth on a wooden table for two.

And the morning frost beyond the kitchen door,

not reaching the warmth of her ears

from the night’s sleep.


I wondered:

What does she have for breakfast?

Does she make herself two sunny side-up eggs?

Is she too busy for eggs?

Perhaps she only eats yogurt before darting out the door.


You were always darting, not quite rushing,

but too fast for me to say hello.

The heart swells and swells,

a bit threatening. The heart hardens

and hardens, frightfully...

I am afraid for my heart.



I feel its mound beneath

the flesh of my breast, thudding

when it is tender, feeling absent when

it hardens...



The heart tries to soften when it becomes

hard, to keep thudding and rising, afraid

of the silence.



When the heart feels love,

it swells, enlarged with

blood and promise, anxious

for the sound of its own drum.