Brian Christopher
Progressive Anatomy
It's not unusual to describe the heart
as being the shape and size of your fist,
but I don't like to think of the heart as a hand,
with its fingers palm-pressed,
wrapped around whatever is there.
All too often it's a misplaced emotion,
like anger, or something we want to own,
as if holding tight was the only way
to contain what we covet.
But just as the mirror
shows you the reverse of what you are,
it's all about letting go,
and no one owns anything.
Even the anger isn't really ours,
inherited from the hands of others
or from watching our heroes fail.
I prefer to think of the heart as a sponge,
heavy with blood and need.
But not desire.
That's where the brain comes in
with its eyes and the clench of ego,
wanting power over everything
and fearing what it can't explain or control,
take credit for or destroy -
much more like that hand doubled into fist.
Meanwhile, the heart just hangs there,
anchored somewhere in the chest,
not even at the center of the body,
protected by a pale cage of ribs,
in need of love,
pumping out its mercy in every direction,
searching for an opening in the skin.
Brian Christopher runs the Quiet Lion press in Portland, Oregon, and is the publisher of the Rain City Review. See his other poem this issue, Barriers.
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