fist

The heart
is a stubborn organ
keeping its beat
day after day
after day
For what?

Ondaatje calls it the organ of fire
But it is one of stone
It has no pride
or too much
it keeps secrets tucked away the brain has forgotten

It is mined with spider webs
glisten
only in the morning light
the moths of our fancy
caught fast
throbbing, throbbing

It makes no sounds
excrete no waste
gathering everything like a waste house

And in sadness,
it only makes a single sound

It beats stubborn
clinging
to fond memories
and foolish hopes

They call it a fist


The heart
is a stubborn organ.