my heart

i go looking
for my heart at
the antique markets--
on beach towels &
folding
tables-- 
how much
for this crystal 
punch bowl complete
with a ladle &
twelve little chalices?
i could use
the big spoon 
to scoop
cold morning
air out of
my skeleton--
pour breathe--
a miscarried cloud--
dad comes with--
we always go 
antiquing together--
we're both rebuilding
our anatomies 
& the heater in my
father's jeep 
is a match stick--
wrap your 
hands around
it-- let fire spread--
lick threads of
your mittens
through to your skin--
your skin is a 
strip of flint--
my heart
this bold match stick
flame--
this frigid fall
morning--
let's page through
collector's 
stamp binders--
mail letters while
they're not looking--
i'll mail mine to
you to let you know
that by the end of
the day i will
hope to have 
found it-- 
my heart that
is-- i keep seeing
it everywhere
& i haven't had the nerve
to strike
a deal for it yet--
it's a lopsided rocking
horse-- an old 
Creature 
of the Black Lagoon
poster--
it's everywhere--
held in the eyes 
of another pile of beanie
babies-- 
it's black & glossy 
& lonely &
certainly not one-of-kind--
whose grandmother's
fur coat was this?
whose purple heart medal?
whose red-handled 
egg beater?
these are so so
many hearts--
so so many shared 
bones laid out
on blankets--
here you see there
are my femurs--
my pelvis which is
also a tasseled
lampshade--
a wilted record player
singing an elvis song--
the king's voice
etched to life
from the rotation
of the turn table--
the rotation
of the earth--
i'm trying to 
put myself 
together here--
frankenstein's boy
here with \
golf club legs 
i will call you when
i'm done-- when i've
found all the fragments--
when i lay back 
in the crystal punch
bowl & shift
my fingers
through
state 
quarters in
the hopes i will
find my heart there--
waiting to be
tucked back
into my pocket--
it has a habit
of slipping away
& turning
round & round
the king's voice
burning
love like
a match struck 
against my skin