My heart has washed ashore

in a strange land.

Pick it up please;

mother it.

It’s a fragile thing.

They threw it off the ship,

they wouldn’t let it walk the plank;

No martyrs here, they said.

They threw it off and

it almost drowned. Luckily it

adhered itself to an empty

cracker box and managed to keep afloat.

Listen, it’s too cold for birds to sing.

My stomach is a slimy twist and

I don’t want to look in the mirror.

Love is too crazy for me.

Give me something dependable,

something tangible.

My chair is in the coldest place

by the window where the wind

blows in through cracks I can’t see

shaking the curtains.

I think cold is the answer in times like these.

I will put my heart in cold storage.

by Cher Bibler