The Occasional Heart
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Some things are better left broken—
Seeds and cicada husks, the robin’s egg,
The chrysalis, the occasional heart.
Some things cannot be healed—
Not simply because they aren’t illnesses–
But because experiences cannot be
Undone. And besides,
Are delicious—the taste of blood
Metallic and sacred, free of pity—
Fortifying the bones.
No rhyme, no reason, no
Providence. They are moments
In the absurdity and the ridiculous wonder
Of living, of breaking open,
Of blossoming into the air,
Of wings settling and elongating,
Of the gift of spiraling inwards and
Outwards during sleep, during death, and unfolding—
Sifting through the branches of your life–
A most spectacular storm,
A most radiant calm.
Sit with grief. Allow it to breathe.
It isn’t something
To be cured. It isn’t
It is you, the self-same you–
Just as joy is your name.
Missing, nothing worthy
Of stealing for, killing for, dying for.
Live. Your soul–ever
Is more you than you. Live.
As for the rest of it—yes—
The mind, body, the spirit—
These, like wings, can all
Be broken. Rest as you move.
Falls apart and wishes itself
Into the ground and sky.
Nothing can stop the holy breaking
Open. Live. Leap
Into the vastness
Of possibility. Live.
Bury the dead, nourish the living,
Into your life.