The Race

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I’m crawling around looking for my heart. It was in my crocodile-skin purse but it must have fallen out; now it’s nowhere along the jeweled trail from the house to the pumpkin carriage. My purse is so empty it rises to the sun, I must pull it down or float away with it, empty-hearted. Why should I suffer like this, my knees ache; there’s mud on my dress. When I stand I’m dizzy and alone; I see the same old things—Mother massaging the carriage driver, the swans ironing the manmade pond, the ivy devouring the mansion—when I look down I see grasshopper, stones, winged fly, frog. The population of those that live at one’s feet. And all they see is from that level. I don’t know what they know, they terrify me, and then I see it; my heart is there. A tiny heart, like a blind frog. And it’s white and thin. And leaps away from me. It takes its place in the company of crumbs and flies and stones. But before it disappears, I catch it. I cup it in my hands before swallowing it whole. It rides my breast with its ragged ticking.