How long had my heart been in pieces on the floor?
How long had I looked at the pieces needing a dustpan?
Mopping up the blood that just attracted ants,
I picked up the broom from its handy storage spot
Between the refrigerator and the wall, tucked in like
A child robot awaiting its moment to be a real boy.
Everything felt surreal, like Dali raised from the grave
His mustache in tact. Somehow, the ants began to march:
A retreat. The blood became mercury, congealing together.
Each piece vibrated on the floor until magnetic attraction
Thrust them across the tiles making a whole throbbing
Vessel that sucked back inside its ventricles the blood.
The broom robot boy turned his head and looked up at me
As if to ask a question it had no words for, so I spoke them:
“Make me a real boy, Geppetto,” and reached down to pick up
The newly formed heart in my hand. My chest opened its wound
As the boy whispered one word: “Home.” Inside the empty space
The heart fit so nicely and Dali melted into Matisse, dancing.
Henri Matisse, The Dance (first version), 1909, The Museum of Modern Art, NYC