In my middle school health class, they told me that
the human heart is roughly the size of a fist.
I don't remember what the teacher said
next, because I was too busy
curling my fingers into my palm.
Surely, whatever I was feeling
had to have been made by something larger than
my frail hands;
something more powerful
than my thirteen-year-old fist.
I closed my eyes
and punched the desk as hard as I could.
The skin on my knuckles tore open,
blood surfacing, shooting
pain up my arm,
and I walked with teary eyes
to the principal's office.
When he asked why I did it,
I could only say that I was testing my heart.
These days, I still ball my hand into a fist and just
stare at it for a bit.
I do this every day,
and sometimes I'll punch something,
like a desk, or a wall,
or a drawer that holds all the letters she wrote me.
My fist has gotten a little larger since then,
but it still breaks and bleeds just the same.
(TB)