a heart is a lonely canister 

let's be canopic if we must.
save the liver for a trip through
the mulberry woods.
place the stomach in a ziploc bag
& run as far away as you can.
i want to get as much use as i can
out of the sun while it's still
batting its eyes. i used to wake my mother up
in the middle of the night
& ask, "how long until the sun goes 
super nova." back then my heart
was a tadpole that lived off of
breadcrumbs & television. 
i had heard a priest say in his homily,
"we never know if we will wake up
the next day." instead of my own death
i took that to mean the end of the world.
filling pillow cases with stones
for safe keeping. what do you keep
from even those you love most?
i like to think i am an open jar
that once housed butterflies 
but i know i keep my lungs 
as far away from the window as possible.
they are prone to turning into wings
of a great swan that wants to confess
just how much she would love 
to have a baby made of light.
o my little alphabet. how i have purchased
every vessel to carry my heart
& none of them have contained 
that fury & that hunger. i wake up
to the sound of it thrashing in the attic,
teeth-bared. the sun has not even begun
to rise. i tell the animal. "you are not
supposed to be the water
you are supposed to be
the gun powder." a body 
can also be defined as a terrain
of rebellion. i trace the distance between
what i want to be & what i am.
name the canyon "heart." 
now how am i supposed to fill this?