Feather duster. Birdcage made of whispers. Tail of a black cat. I’m a child running With open scissors. My eyes are bandaged. You are a heart pounding In a dark forest. The shriek from the Ferris wheel. That’s it, bruja With arms akimbo Stamping your foot. Night at the fair. Woodwind band. Two blind pickpockets in the crowd.
“Your heart,” he says, planting a needle on a point between her brows, “beats too fast. Too strong. Works too hard.” More needles. Side of her neck, her throat, her shins, her feet, on her back. Immobilized by the needles, she wants to tell him This heart has always chosen its own pace, won’t slow for anyone’s sake, not even its own. Makes its own rules as hearts have done these ages now, maybe till all time.Quite beyond reason,