Featured Poem

Heart Murmur

My heart doesn’t have to think.

It works on impulse: squeeze, relax.

It speeds up when I climb hills,

slow dances during sleep

until it’s hijacked, slewed by lust,

the chemicals of longing

swirling through its chambers.

Then it aches and clambers out

raw muscle stuck to my sleeve.

It risks snagging on a nail

or attracting a hungry dog.

I am scared. It palpitates.

I stuff it back behind my ribs,

give up on men, again, again.