Poetry 365

she drew in the sand half a heart and spilled wine over the leaves
of summer. driving her car into the seven/eleven she dreamed
of whispering in the ear of a baseball player asking him to
stumble upon her tattoo, a thing not easy in itself to do without
invitation, with half a heart. the dream blue on green,
making yellow in defiance of afternoon sunlight among the thorns
and broken shards of glass without invitation, with half a
heart. she brought him color, and luck of proper wing and sun.
he imagined she loved him despite his illnesses, remembered visits
from her at the asylum on sundays bringing packages of coconut
without invitation, with half a heart. he spends his days asking
only that i never mention her aloud. so i take my box of crayons
and mark over the empty places trying so hard to match the
colors, knowing i will never fool anyone without invitation, with
half a heart.