Written on your heart are the words
“This heart is dedicated to _________”
After that comes playing the piano,
or Maude, or the sacred mantra of your children’s names.
Some names have been crossed out, and you can barely make out
the letters beneath all the added lines.
Some names are homes for those who have travelled
away from the restless beating of their own heart.
(Most of the heart is blank space,
and so there is always room
to scribble down some more words,
which is what the days are really up to,
in their own secret hearts.)
The names are written in candlelit suppers
and on the softball field. The names are heated in the microwave
and placed on a table, with expectant hope.
Fingers that know the shape by heart
trace the names each day, and like this
the Book of Life is given away, even as it is read.
And without the giving there is no Book,
only an organ wheezing pointlessly for no one.