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Hearts Heavy and Light

No one’s more heavy-hearted than the whale,
the beat of her anatomy slow to come
as the end of pain. Yet she’s not blue,
swimming her permanent present
with parabolic breach and plunge.
What does she desire, mornings, as she opens
her one shut eye? A scoop of krill,
silky seas to slide through, orcas
lurking elsewhere as her calf swims
buoyant in her slipstream?

*

No one’s more light of heart than hummingbird,
that dapper flutterer, darter and dipper,
tiniest of gods to sip on nectar. She’s a hum
of harmonics pierced by tsk-tsks of reproof,
like a two-year-old all go-go-go
until she drops, stunned, stopped.
What
does she want, rising from torpor to earliest light?
Crinkled moss, spider silk to spin a cup,
scarlet bells to sip and suck, no
dark shadow dropping deadly from above?

*

We of the middle zone, middle weight, mind-bound,
hold hearts that flipflop metaphysically from leaden
to light. We wake to hunger, shirk cold, and wrap our arms
around precious young.
Our desires? Ravenous—
the world’s most voracious killer,
its deadliest shadow, we’ve become
the only thing left for us to fear.

—
Maya Muir spent her professional life as a freelance journalist, book reviewer, and school administrator, writing fiction and poetry on the side, and recurrently turning to poetry. She’s lived in Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and LA, but now has deep roots in the wonderfully varied and beautiful state of Oregon.

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