bursting like a knife
from between my ribs
is not the true heart
that beats rainbows
into the blue air. It’s the false
heart, anxious heart,
unsure if its music is too loud.
Bold hearts beat purple, but mine
bleeds metallic at my feet, the pool
of it widening to encompass
the world in the copper-tang taste
Understanding is missing,
a piece I must find,
but looking into shadows
has robbed me of eyes,
left me with fingers groping blind,
into the thorns, into the spiders,
into the jaws of night.
Elizabeth Devine is a poet, author, and professional student. She never found a place to belong, so she takes up all the space available. She raises chickens, takes writing classes, and stalks her boyfriend. Her poetry can be found in Page & Spine Magazine and The Chestatee Review.