Between sofa cushions,
to be retrieved later,
with something sticky on it,
and, if I was lucky,
a little loose change.
At the bottom of passionate seas
that were only cold, dirty sheets
by the end, with maybe a sock
here and there, to remember him by.
I once let a little boy
carry it around
while I dallied with Daddy.
That kid still has a piece of it,
and he doesn’t even know.
Why don’t you guard it?
they asked. I knew how.
But the heart is infinite,
and locking it up seemed heartless.
The last time I lost it,
it wasn’t coming back.
I saw an image down a wishing well,
and threw my heart down with the bucket.
After that, nothing made sense—
top or bottom, who saved who,
whose heart was dissolved, whose whole.
We only knew the water was sweet.
Lorna Wood is a violinist and writer in Auburn, Alabama, whose poetry has appeared in After the Pause, Coastal Shelf, and Poetry South (Pushcart nominee), among others. She has also published fiction, creative nonfiction, and scholarly essays.