Outside the machine, the bleeding hearts trace
the lifeline across the palm of my hand.
Are they dancing or do I make it so?
I am seven-years-old, not again but

once,

on my way from school

in a yellow gingham dress edged in lavender.

“Danny likes you,” calls a boy behind me.
It can’t be true. My heart feels different.
Like a butterfly in a spring garden,
it dances in the locket of my soul.

Once,

near the gateway now

in a yellow gingham dress edged in lavender,

the bleeding hearts cross my palm and I shout
across the space between us, “He does not!”
Inside my spirit, hope sings. I feel love
for a boy with freckles and reckless joy.

Inside the machine, I set the table
for a family that would sail away
without me. There is not much time to breathe.
“Stay off the dock,” my mother says. “Today
a boy was drowned. His name was Danny.”

Once,

across the threshold

in a yellow gingham dress edged in lavender,

the sound of knives and forks became a song
cutting through the evening. “I like you too,”
I whisper. “Did you know him then?” she asked.
The wings within my soul drew round him close.
“No.”

Outside the machine, the sun is brighter
Moments live here and they stay forever.
They cannot be painted or imagined.
The locket holds the bleeding hearts and love

Still dances along the palm of my hand.