If I let the soft animal of my body love,
and self-love is accepting my body,
but that same body keeps the score,
how do I know if I’m winning?

When the bright-sharp pain between my wing bones
pins my spirit to my heart until
it threatens to rupture my breastbone and
rapture the ruby-throated hummingbird of desire

to a flight of fractured geometry—
all corners and angles acute to a point
without any curves to soften the blow or
calculate the average in the bell-shape of my soul—

how does the clapper of my tongue
beat the bronze bell of my mouth,
knitting the thread together, hook and loop,
into the semblance of a poem?

Where do the winged words go
once they fly from my heart, up my throat
and burst from my lips in a chorus
of feathered promise?

Why do you make a nest in your heart,
encourage the words to roost
and remain in your thoughts,
giving them a second life in you?

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Dawn Levitt (she/her) is a two-time heart transplant recipient and a freelance writer, poet, and essayist who recently completed her memoir about growing up with congenital heart disease and receiving two heart transplants. Her work has appeared in Newsweek, Insider Magazine, Remington Review, Alchemy Spoon, and Epistemic Literary. 

Website: www.dawnlevittauthor.com

Twitter: @2HeartCore4U

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