—at The Giant Heart, The Franklin Institute (Philadelphia, PA)
Today the boy won’t rest long enough
for me to burn a single metaphor
back to whether precision or
prayer leavens the language I need
cast into the well of our survival. And then
the boy urges my turn to stay
poised on a floor scale while watching 24
chilling cups of hurt-colored liquid spill
into a clear cylinder. The gutted window
to the privacy of blood harbored
in this body thins the daily belief
that no sick imaginary could cut us
full open. And then the boy gawks around
a carousel of animal hearts, fidgets against
his surprise at the smallness of the lion’s
carnal engine beside the cow’s. Before
I can weigh the un-chambered bellows
of hunger, the boy begins to sound
a panel that plays the pulse of each animal.
He doesn’t linger with a blood-music; he keeps
mashing buttons at random—from the canary’s
constant lift to the cavernous crawl
of the blue whale—until I can’t see living
inside a god-rhythm that soothes
this earthly cacophony pleading
toward the dark effort of tomorrow.
By now, I have a strange image for heart
filling my mouth. I’m remembering
the tiny fleshy pyramids my own father
cleaned from sunfish. When they ceased
their tight contractions, I strained
to recognize the heart-ness in his hand,
sometimes pressing down into the soft
plunge of his palm to witness one
last lunge. This memory dissolves because
the boy dashes off, and then I’m chasing him
through the beating corridors of a giant
vascular room. The way is dim
and narrow—: I’m working hard to keep up.
I’m trying not to lose the boy
inside the heart. But every time I hear the light
of his laughter murmur across another
distance, I breathe into the new blessing
his life has kindled from the space between us:—
I think I could survive like this all day.
Copyright © 2017 by Geffrey Davis. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on September 8, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.