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Yo soy un Corazón

hands

come together
steepled, intent
palms rub together nervously

my world falls down

death could be befriended
not this slow reduction, this boiling away
even now liquefying into hot tears
evaporating from this world
the stranger in the mirror
no more substance than a perfume or a stain

there is no need to look

I do not see myself
only a prison where infection dwells
“where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies”1
you will not win

I will raise up my hidden Self
I have

never known her
the outward me, the façade
we conspired to dress her up once

tidying her to capture a man

all of our machinations were in vain

she was unpredictable even in her most appealing moments

I fell in love by accident

he stared into her eyes and found me

now she is tired, she is old, she has cancer

her miracles arise from her heart’s faith

in death that heart will remain
I cannot say I will not mourn her

I am already buried where the heart, the soul, resides
I have no claim to this body

I am a heart.

1 Keats, Ode to a Nightingale