Felt Heart

It is easy. Gather

colorful puffs of wool. Roll

them into hints of shapes—

one large asymmetric lump

and several tubes—hold

these fiber springs against

a foam brick, stab

them into hardness

with a notched needle. Lay

the forms upon each other, prick

for six hours until they

stick together, resemble

your anatomical heart, complete

with ventricles and atria.

You are not through. Tattoo

in twisted wool thread forked arteries in red

over blue veins upon the tiny fist

of fuzzy muscle, one that could pump

wool blood

through a wool being built by gods—

your own hands and heart—

against the cold world.

But who has time for that?

Only wool mothers.

Stop with the precious heart, its hacked tubes,

disembodied totem in your wrinkled palm.

Promise yourself to love like this

feather light, wounded and beautiful.