Our mother's heart resides inside

a coffin, tiny in

her arms' embrace, wrapped cautiously,

protective, around the


First love of her life. Our mother's

heart is fragile, more so

than even porcelain, restless

as a newborn, and just


as soft. Our mother's heart is cast

of iron, liquified,

burning hotter than hellfire

and nearly as bright. Our


mother's heart is buried deep, but

not quite six feet- shovels

can only go so far before

they begin to reach bone.


Our mother's heart still beats within

the empty casket of

her chest. Our ears listen to her

distant song, close enough


to lull us to sleep, yet further

than her body would let

know. We hear her breathe a sigh-

relief that one of us


made it out alive.