some of my hearts are warm, wet flesh
thrumming under my skin at my neck, my wrists, the tops of my thighs
the pulse, the squeeze
da-dum, da-dum, like a two-end drum
some of them are suede couches,
soft to the touch, big enough to swallow you whole
when you sit down;
smothering you with tiny fibrous kisses
snuggling into the small of your back
nuzzling the space behind your ears.
but there’s at least one,
two-fifths of the way from my chest to my back,
that’s a shapeshifting glass bottle
balanced and chiming on my ribs.
sometimes it’s full of water
(which splashes over the thick circle rim when I dance or run)
and sometimes smooth grey pebbles
(water-worn like the best of me, all seamlessly wonky)
and sometimes dried thorns, or a potpourri of dead-and-mourned roses
and sometimes just a single butterfly
or a fine coating of Iceland ash.
sometimes it’s a tiny perfume spritzer
or a jar for strawberry jam
but today it’s a milk bottle, wide and solid
and comfortably half-full of warm, sweet peace.