It’s cold today.

I look out the window and think about

you. I look at the big empty

trees like fat women in

a locker room, sprinkling their feet

with talcum powder.

I look at the slow empty street

and the neighbor’s car parked

in their driveway and the dull

shine of the sun on its windshield.

I look out the window and think about

you. I am in eclipse. I am

in the hollow of the dark side

of your mind, and trees like

women are holding long

fingernails wet with polish,

blowing on them gently to hurry them dry.

You have given me back a

heart but I don’t

recognize it; it must not be

mine. You have given me

someone else’s heart – why?

I sit with it in my lap;

it flops around like a fish.

I don’t know where to put it –

in the hole where mine used to go?

Will it fit?

A woman like a tree walks down

the street eating a hot dog. She was a

ballerina once.

She talks to herself because

no one else listens. Her fingers like

branches splay out in regret.

I watch with this heart in my hand.

I look out the window and think about

you.

by Cher Bibler