beat box

Image via Flickr/spaztacular

i am pushing this heart into a box.
not surgery, but survival.

it’s not easy to hide a heart,
the universe’s metronome,
punching existence through unwilling ventricles —

it’s messy.

with resolve this time,
but fingers slip their grip.
a beet left
too long in the pot,

oozing soft red flesh around my knuckles.
still, it beats

staining new veins into the wood
and reminding me

i am alive