by D. Allen

The acre between collarbone
and chest is a sacred field but,
same as the Midwestern horizon
whose seam reveals no minor
variation, I had to learn to love
what grows there. One hand
placed flat on the breastbone
has  become  our  word  for     
1. I feel what you cannot say as if
it were my own feeling. 2. I am
not going anywhere but in this
moment we are both afraid.  
3. Here is your heart, beating.
We were in bed when I first
asked you to touch me there. My
skin bare; your face violet and
gold in low lamplight. I thought
you could resuscitate me from
numbness, rush out the paddles
until I gasped again with my
neck arched back, heart jump-
started. Lightning splitting the
old cornfield oak. At least that’s
how I imagined it would be. In
truth, it was just this: in your
hand, a cup of warm water.  
Poured onto my body, the snow.