the hearts of small animals 

pink leaking pink, 
soft tissue; 
hovering organs 
hung out of a green clothesline.
i used to see bleeding hearts flowers as 
proof of god,
wondering how nature could know 
that, despite all evidence,
humans believe hearts 
look like paper cut-outs.
there used to be a bush outside
the old church where we had girl scouts 
& each april afternoon on the walk there
i would stop & fill all my pockets 
with the flower's hearts
when no one was looking.
i knew they must be the hearts 
of small creatures:
butterflies, toads, 
or maybe even a rabbit--
i could see them emerging from 
the bundle of trees at the back 
of the graveyard at dusk 
to pull their flower-heart 
out of their mouths & hang it there
as a fair well
similar to the graves they spent
their lives weaving between.
closest to the church were the oldest graves
some of the stones illegible 
names & dates smoothed away by the rain. 
i planted the hearts in the dirt by 
those worn stones, pretending
the animals could share the plots
with these humans.
under the dirt they might trade 
stories about what smells they miss most on earth-- 
the small animal might try 
to help the human bones remember 
their names-- guessing all through the night
all the wild their flower heart
rebuilding their body again.
i used to hope i'd by buried 
in that cemetery someday in a plot 
with all my family. 
sitting between the stones 
with my pocket full of the hearts 
of small creatures 
i would grin thinking how one day
a toad might visit me 
& try to remind me 
what i was called.