The burying wasn’t hard to do,
the ground was hummus-y and wet with dew.
And it wasn’t very big at all,
but condensed and compressed,
quite small.
I placed it in a box made of fabrics,
of tattered lace and scattered clouds,
amongst scribbled pages, notes and drawings,
so many long forgotten dreams.
All stuffed together,
without any visible edges or seams.

I left it alone,
but I didn’t forget it.
On rare occasions I’d remind myself to check it.
When I did, I’d be pleasantly shocked by its visceral quality,
its odd shape and grotesque coloring,
pulsing with a beat that was slowly,
slowing.

One day, not too long ago,
I had a sudden feeling like a letting go.
I still could sense my small chesty organ,
I still could feel it calling.

When I dug it up though,
I no longer felt that same fascination.
Instead, there were sharp pains, words and witnessing,
too much to feel again.
But unlike the child of nine or ten,
I felt more grown up now,
and more like a mother to my childlike heart.

In my hands,
dark purply-red,
bloodstained,
surely not dead —
but half-alive and glistening.
My tears were the weeping,
the bleeding, and the desperate needing.

At emotion’s crescendo,
it seemed to stop.
A last beat,
and a bugle’s horn,
droning out long and low from underneath.
I felt a deep sigh, a relief.
Actually it seemed like a most natural death,
beating the last beat like a last dying breath.
No more feelings, no more pain.
I hoped I could go on without it,
and not ever think of it again.

But I was wrong about death.
And I was wrong about neglect and ignorance,
innocence and breath.

Whatever was left there
was ripening —
ripening in moonlight, ripening under the ground,
ripening in the mouths of the ones
who don’t make a sound.
The ones who draw their ancient breath,
from some place we haven’t seen yet.

I learned that this is what happens with hearts that need to be buried,
and souls that have gotten too heavy and weary:

they sleep, they grieve, they weep and they weave.
They crack and they hurt wide open.
They nourish the ground,
moving and shifting,
they listen and grow.

They let what lies down,
lie down in the ground.
They let what takes knowing,
the time and space,
and the darkness —
the solitude of knowing.