By Barbara Jane Reyes
Squeeze your hand into a fist. Now, loosen, just a bit.
They say that is the heart, heat, fiber, sugar. Cut
around its core, score and invert. Take your teeth
to its golden flesh and bite. They say this is the heart
of a lovely girl. In these stories, there is always a girl,
lovely as that dream just before waking. There is always
a girl, whose dainty feet make light where she toe-taps
the earth, so soft. Elders tell her patience will saint her.
And so she waits. There is always heartbreak, chambers
washed in longing, pulsing dark inside the body. She waits.
They say she waited with the waning moon, until the dawn.
She waited. Press your index finger and tall finger
into the underside of your jawbone, and count.
