heart

1 Oct 2007

you picked up

some dust

as you tumbled across the Nevada desert

 

and there are nicks

to the left artery

and a gash in your southern hemisphere

from the cliffs of California    

 

you left some blood

in the river Colorado

 

and there is a vein

struggling to keep up

with your trot homeward

 

the Lakes of Michigan

are calling to you—

you lost somewhere on the Great Plains—

a stick and handkerchief

slung over your bold red shoulder

 

you hear the water

 

and a cavernous rib cage

 

and you look to the sun

and ask it not

to make you leather

 

but to carry you forward

 

 

©Julie Bolitho. “heart,” Poems. Ukraine and Other Poems. Leaf Books Press: 2007, pg. 17.

 

 

 

 

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Best American Essays 2018

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© Julie Bolitho 2018