chrysalis

my father's wet,
pink heart,
harvested from him
preserved in a pile
of stuffed animals
at the foot of my bed.
it had outgrown him,
peeled away his flaky shell
& now pulses weakly
among the blank-eyed inanimates.

its arrhythmia
keeps me awake nights,
stuttering a stychomythic score
to the cinema of my dreams,
snapping me to consciousness
to see the furtive black hands
of the clock grasping feebly
at two,
three - sometimes,
four -

it seems sometimes to wheeze,
curling like a mewling newborn
shucked too soon
of its protective shell
just beyond the soles
of my feet.

almost instinctively,
i begin to moan in tandem,
as if trying to provide solace
to its distress,
but we sing in different tongues
& both of us
remain lonely,
even made more uncomfortable
with the very presence
of the other

one night,
it stopped
& began to rot,
melting,
staining the sheets
with a ruddy lake
of blood & water.

the morning after was
claustrophobic -
unfriendly.
the gauzy, flocculent sunlight
battered at my face & chest
like a violent horde of moths
trying to get in.

i sought refuge in the
dim cloisters of libraries &
bookstores,
stealing one page at a time,
and,
when night again
wrapped itself around our house,
i, with saliva &
shuddering fingers,
knit a wet chrysalis
for myself

once inside,
asleep,
the turgid, febrile pulse
of my heartbeat
filled my ears,
stoppering up
any other sound.
i held my breath
& waited

& still,
i wait