The fish had an eyeball clouded over,
its scales flaking off like dandruff.
Its tail was like a tattered net,
fluttering in an invisible underwater breeze.
I scooped it gingerly out and stored it in my heart,
where it turned slowly,
like the earth around its axis.

And gradually it healed,
its eyes sparkled,
its scales grew to a shimmery coat.

But then I saw another fish,
its tummy bloated its mouth agape.
So I scooped it up and parted my heart.
A clear silver line divided it,
and I gave half to each.

But more and more fish I saw,
the more I cut my heart up.
There I stored them and let them heal
and in the most devouring darkness they
shimmer, a million hues of a rainbow.

I haven’t dared examined my heart,
it’s hard to keep the walls up.
Will I see pairs of angry eyes,
stares refracted; multiplied a thousandfold?
Some say it looks like cracked glass;
it does take a lot of discipline
to keep the pieces together.
But I prefer to think it’s diamond,
cold and hard to cut – it’s beautiful
right?