Thanksgiving, 3 a.m., Paris

by Linda Simone | 2009

Under the imperfect blanket
of night, when I
can't sleep—hot, as if the soleil de Paris were beating down
on my head—you
turn to me, whisper
          Pull off your ear.

I don't understand.

But I do
pull out the plug, and wait.
You hand me yours
through which poetry,
like a nightingale, sings.
Then you leave me alone
to listen.

Tonight, if you asked me
to tear out my heart,
wait
as the hot, red mass pulses
in my hand, wait
to see what you really asked of me

I believe you'd place your own
ruby beating heart
in your hand—
shining, thrumming,
and gently, like the lighting
of a bird in the Jardin de Luxembourg,
settle it into my chest
so I could dream.

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