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Pawnshop heart PDF Print Email
Stealing one’s heart back from a thief.
By Heather M Fowler / San Diego, CA
Monday, February 4, 2008


This is my long, lyrical love letter to the dullness of your soul; hear
the piano’s crescendo, the marching band, the three hyenas
waiting at the edge of the canyon near your house? Each day
I fed them lunchmeat and canned corn and rubbish, kept
them away from your door. Did that not mean something?
It was a service. Once, I owned my heart, before I sold it to you, but
now I see too late it went too cheaply. So, tell me, is your love for me
like a pawn shop downtown where I may buy or trade it back? Clearly,
you will cheat me, offer someone’s grandma’s lorgnette, a pair of stained hose,
maybe a cigar box, or a clock for what you paid me — and then
try to charge more to return it as you hold it, as it beats for me,
longing for me, seeing me — but I will not pay you then. Soon enough
I will go there at night for its rescue, break your storefront glass
like a burglar, steal it back, swallow it down my throat to land
again in my chest since it shrank so small
in your company it was more like a pill than a
palm tree, but my unanswered question will be: Will you
notice anything but broken glass
upon your return — the next day,
in your fugue, in your misery — (and)
later, when you find
you can’t have it back,
tell me,
will you even
know it gone?

Last Updated ( Tuesday, February 5, 2008 )
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No one imagines that a symphony is supposed to improve in quality as it goes along, or that the whole object of playing it is to reach the finale. The point of music is discovered in every moment of playing and listening to it. It is the same, I feel, with the greater part of our lives, and if we are unduly absorbed in improving them we may forget altogether to live them. —Alan Watts, British philosopher
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