Letter to Two Hearts

Letter to Two Hearts

by Rachel Bunting

i. One Couldn’t Help Failing

Overripe fruit. You didn’t know it was wrong.
Didn’t know you were useless. Only that you

loved the body intensely. Loved hot like pitch
pine on fire. Pocked stone. Loved the man

who grew without effort your complicated
scaffolding from a single cell to a solid knot

of muscle. Unbloomed tulip. How quickly
your roots dry out. You believed you were

fighting the right fight until the day he lost
track of the miles. Fell hard on his shoulder

and you shorted out like a blown fuse. Oh
little fist. It’s not your fault you couldn’t hit.

ii. One Used to Belong to Someone Else

No one knows who. A chef or a bus driver
struck unlucky. Elephants and cells are not

the same but maybe some memory will stick.
Maybe you’ll wake inside a new red clutch

to find the myth come true: the body loves
what it didn’t love before. Either way it beats

the alternative. Either way you win. A man
can run again, maybe. Can write about it.

Can wake up in the morning believing
in something: the sweet bay slipping up

behind the house, the radio knob turning
on, turning off. His own feet on the ground.

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