The Minstrel

There she sits, mahogany stool

slipped underneath her.

Can it hold the weight of her head?

She smiles brightly, and picks up her instrument–

frowns as she strums each chord,

tuning them.

This ritual masks her nervous breath.

She straightens, erects herself, and

into the microphone she blows.

Can anyone feel the weight of her heart?

 

No, no.

She buried it.

Bleached it, shrank it, and wouldn’t,

couldn’t dig it up.

Her audience may sway to each metallic pluck,

tap in time with the melody,

but they cannot hear the emptiness

that stems from her crushed heart

she hides like some terrible secret.

 

Churning deep within her chest

the heart feebly moans,

its weight increases year by year,

but she carries herself upright.

She won’t disappoint the crowd,

even if it pains her.

She is too good, too great and well-known

to deal with the ugly animal she has stored away.

That bastard organ,

that shriveled mess,

that starving, starving

thing.

She will not deflate.

She will carry that tender weight,

that beaten metal heart,

until it is flattened

thin as a horse’s hair.