The heart throbs, a live bird.
She pulses, she drums, her red brow furrowed.
She wears a jingle-dress of compassion,
she twirls around midnight fire,
singing back lost pieces of her day.
She names lost pieces of herself tenderly.
She howls beneath the moon.
She never stops trading the currency of her open
Others advise her to close down.
Hourly they barter.
They counsel to claim half the beat.
They counsel to claim half the moon.
They counsel to protect the sacred center.
She keeps beating, steadfast heart.
She keeps claiming it all.
She holds the live bird in her open fist and it lets it free
in this moment and
this moment again.
There is no protection for the open heart