A Rush of Blood
i'm afraid my heart is half-dead.
some days: my circulation drops
to nothing and i wither, blackening
till i fall away like autumn's end.
i can't remember radiance—
though i feel summer clearly on
my skin, it rumples under
the frost that creeps, inevitable,
into my milky-white skeleton
(i lose the battle; my pulse falls
silent). maybe i am a puff of
mist, like a smoke ring, holding
form until i dissolve into
nothing nothing nothing
because i cannot hold anything
too long. winter always
comes, soporific: i will sleep
for a thousand years in this
briar castle. time has touched
me too quick and i am frozen with
the roses; when the world wakes
we will wane (i am as evanescent
as moonlight—never hold
me in your hand). when i am marbled
in death, they will pull out my heart, hard
and shriveled as a stone, wondering:
"how did she ever live?"