and Lord-Have-Mercy-Week amongst devour believers everywhere.
The Amorousness supplies are high!
You can tell by the lipstick on my ankles
I’ve decided to celebrate in style.
You can see from the milky look in my eyes
I think I’m ready for anything, and it’s true—-
we are going to party all other holidays into submission.
We’ve got mountains of ticker tape
shredded from shitty insincere Valentines
and enough cantaloupe flavored jelly bellies
to pelt the Easter Bunny back
to the religious doubt factory it came from.
We’ve got a soundtrack of trust fall squeals to clink drinks to.
So why can’t I get you on the phone?
A new report by the Department of Miseries
claims 8 out of 10 broken hearts are crushed beyond repair.
It’s a tune you’ve been singing all week.
You are every cynic’s back up choir.
I know what the world did to you.
I know it’s easy to retreat behind the shields of graceful bitterness.
It is the hardest thing in the world to tolerate being loved,
and being loved again, like tanning on the surface of the sun.
But you don’t know what I know.
That report didn’t take into account that
the most resilient parts of ourselves are hidden
in the bomb shelters of each other’s eyes.
It didn’t take into account the mounting evidence
that joy is an involuntary muscle.
It didn’t factor in that this has been the best apocalypse ever.
So I am submitting a counter-report.
I am submitting grandfather clocks, dozens of them,
locked in a dust-clouded room illuminated
with the ill romance of musty curtain light.
An old bent over clockmaker is winding
and freeing the pendulums at different times,
setting loose a klutzy tinkling the sound like
pyramids of teacups perpetually buckling.
In only two days time the clocks will synchronize.
It’s a law of physics— vibratory frequencies in a closed system
seek the path of least resistance. Pendulums will sway in perfect time
and you would never see the thousand lazy changes it took,
just the sudden satisfying lock step.
Everything wants to be bound to everything else.
Lightning charges someone’s porch wing night sky.
It leads to two hands clasping electrically
beneath a blanket that will someday smell like home.
Neurotransmitters leap like liquid fish from crystal bowls
so some kid can learn to play the guitar.
He will write the song that will call her back to you.
Our hearts are just muscle fisted clocks,
keeping their own time with this messy sentiment of drumming.
Even the broken ones. Even yours.