by essayan hart

The lost pieces
Are aching inside of you
Grown too swollen
And piercing beyond the scars

This I believe, is why you are ill

I have not studied the art of healing
Not to these depths
A headache, I can handle

The lost pieces
Are aching inside of you
The call you did not answer
The love that you cast off
The body you so brokenly
pulled from the wreckage
One September

I am resting my hands on your head
In dreams now, each evening
I sleep, in my sad attempts at mending
But this is your work

Imagine a spark of light
No, a living shard of glass
Cutting, and within it
The potential for a life in service

Imagine your lungs
There is scar tissue
This is a delicate breath

Only now, as you allow yourself
To shake it loose
Might I suggest letting that man
Reach in
To pull the shard from your body

The light of it
The glass now foreign
And dangerous

Given a choice
And allowed to return
I would let these learned men and women
With their comprehensive knowledge
of our thin shells
And their steady hands
near you

only after


you had taken such a breath