My Heart
a poem
My heart beats warm
on my sleeve.
Anyone who looks
can see her defiant,
insistent beating.
She is perched there
at the end
of my arm
open
like she’s expecting
some kind of alchemy
to transform her.
All she sees is her
tarnished tin
she wants to be
something
brighter, shinier,
more desirable.
She’s tried to find
a new sparkle,
but on her own
she is only able to mine
a vein of foolish pyrite.
I think she’s growing
tired of waiting
for a magic spell;
she’s beating a little
faster lately.
I took her to a big
whirling machine
to have her examined
and everything was fine,
but she refuses
to be satisfied
with her pristine interiors.
I tell her
that her smooth,
carefree chambers
warrant a celebration.
She just sighs.
She misses
the days
when she
was golden.
© 2024, A. Breslin. All Rights Reserved.
