A door opened into her body,

a cavern, pinpricks like electric wasps.

Her fingers dimmed

like fireflies drained of light.

So this is someone’s work, she thought,

the dimpled spider and the white heal-all.

Her heart waned in the cave.

A fox crept to the mouth, lowered his head. 

Wind shivered through her gown.

Where is he going? she asked.

Where is the spider? At night

flowers closed like ghosts on their stems, 

moth wings ruined by fingers. Voices floated

from the hall, lungs filled and emptied, 

alveoli like paintbrush bracts,

like tips of lit torches.



“The Heart” appeared previously in Barnstorm, November 2018.

Arlene Naganawa is our Poet in Residence for December.

Previously: "When You Are Old and Full of Sleep", "Word Medicine", and "Red".