You had that
smash tea kettle
always breaking pieces off
and handing them to me
I strung them together
I wore your
smash tea kettle pieces
round my neck
I loved it more
than any diamond
I kept a piece
of your smash tea kettle
in my heart
it was the sharpness
cut me loose
Signed, waterproof sealed, and undelivered –
your heart is a diamond on the ocean floor.
You are a treasure box of heavy coal.
Your feet are magnets and your eyes tend towards the ground.
Your spine wants to encircle itself under the bed,
on the bathroom floor,
under an ocean of gravity,
down in the depths where no voice can break through.
You want to send up poetry in bubbles
so someone might hear you and come to where you are
and the two of your sunken hearts will lie
set like gems in a mass of coral.
But no light will ever reach to illuminate your face
and you would have a diamond lost
to be set with you;
oh, be patient, whatever it takes to shed
your heavy heart-stone of a body,
to soften by degrees of gradual warmth
as you rise, ever slowly, and rise.
Be patient, whatever it takes to turn
your diamond heart back to flesh.