My pulse
brushes its fingertips
against
cochlea and canal,
scattering
sand and aural glitter.
I listen
to my arrhythmia,
sliding
into sleep along its
drunken
stumbling. Sometimes, instead,
it slides
a thin-edged knife along
the line
of my jawbone. Sometimes
it pounds
like an ex-lover who
never
did listen, becoming
all I hear.
Sometimes my pulse just stops,
paused
like a dancer in mid-leap,
balanced
as if gravity
has lost
its grip. I open
my eyes
to see what happens next.
Rosefire Rising 