Of Her Heart

From the basement, she examines
her wounds; an old shoe, damp
unread books, the odor of memory
clings to her ribs. She's forgotten

if the moon always hung from
a cord, swings back and forth
when feet upstairs bang
on the boards, or if thunder

leaves cracks in the ceiling,
walls of her heart. She prepares
a letter to her lover, on a bed
she traces with two fingers

words about darkness, heavy
and stilled. Notes of a girl
whose eyes fell out dreaming,
of bones shaken, yet gleaming

swimming through night
like an empty shell; a space
she's saved for believing
surprisingly filled.