ANGST

ANGST

There are hearts. And there are hearts.

But that bird with one smaller than

a pencil eraser has worked frenziedly

to whirr and flutter  over eager flowers 

and tender leaves more than my wary

heart has tried to run out and break

free from its bricked-up gaoler, afraid

that one day I would lose that teetering 

shadow at the door, pine for that scent

I run to on evenings like this, to a deep

smell of skin, and to taste his apple breath.

O for an urgent whisper on a whiff of wind!  

Would the murmur of wings still be there,

to keep my heart gentle and unshuttered?

---Albert B. Casuga

07-08-11

I’ve lived mostly alone in the bricked-up house of my heart,/but a wind teeters at the door, smelling of skin and apple breath.---From “Ode to the Heart Smaller than a Pencil Eraser” by Luisa A. Igloria, Via Negativa, 07-07-11