Matryoshka

My heart rips a little each time I drive away.
Although I suppose the holes in me leave more
Room for love and dreams and power.
That’s what I like to think anyway.
The longing is a puzzle that rips me up
And then sews me back piece by piece.

And the paradox is that each patch
Makes me stronger. Kiln-fired strength
To use in fierce arenas where I fight
The fires of my days and
The loneliness that snuggles close at night.

My heart is not used to being free.
And my spirit and intellect enjoy your playground too.
The wonder of your piercing eyes and strong hand in mine
And the dimple that dances with your words
Plays on my mind as the wheels roll on.

I drive and drive, trying to stuff the pieces of my heart
Back in the box, as if they can return miraculously, perfectly,
like those Russian nesting dolls.
But they never truly fit this way
And there is no room now for packing peanuts that
Cushion the blows in transit.
The bruises will be deep this time.

The road does not cleanse me as I wish.
The miles of flat fields cannot erase
The smell of you in my hair and
Your voice in my ear.
You stick to me like eyeballs to monsters’ hands
And cat hair to black jeans.
And even in my sadness you make me
Smile.

I love you with the fierce protection of a mother bear
Although I cannot take credit for any of you,
Except for your re-birth in my heart and
The dreams I hear when the lights are out and you
Let me chalk a door around your soul.