Poem: My Next Heart by Janet McNally

1.
Next time, make my heart paper.
Origami, perhaps: translucent, sharp-cornered,

recyclable. When I’m done, I’ll press it flat
and tuck it inside

a grocery bag. A man will come to the curb
and haul it away.

Look, miracle. No more flesh, no
secret language

of rhythm and thump. Just folds
and corners and a knife-edge

crease: a perfect little machine
that does nothing.

Girl-quiet, bright
liar, you’d never know

what kind of physics
is buzzing inside.

2.
Next time, make my heart
sailcloth, hemmed

with racing stripes. Stretch it
triangular and I’ll sleep

the flat, soaring sleep of the albatross:
weeks at a time, sun blinking

on and off like a Christmas bulb. Blue dark,
white light, black ocean. I’ll dream

updraft and downdraft and skim
over fog. I’ll know the risks, and I won’t care:

a sailcloth heart might glide away
before I’m done with it. All it takes

is one breath to get it started.
Things can go so far on their own.