Something inside you tremors when the surface
is touched by feeling. That thing about the heart
worn on a sleeve—a guilelessness perceived by others,
which means feeling rises—a flush, a stutter, or tears—
more rapidly than any thought could clothe it first
in something not so naked. Tonight it’s all you can do
to keep from dissolving—the sight of people putting
their I Voted stickers on lampposts near where Alex
and Renee were murdered, the news of blue wins in near
every state. Someone you love telling you this is the first
time in years they did not wish, almost every minute,
to die. On the outside, you’ve learned to appear calm,
even if your heart's racing. You're always lurching one
step ahead to keep something from falling, breaking.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
