In the woods there are old things with rust on them. Some of them I recognize: a bolt, a bucket, a bent tricycle ingrown in a tree. Some are just curled shards shouting tetanus, or spiky whittled wire racks, the spent shell of a vending machine. There are things which look like machines though I do not understand them. Gears and tubs and shafts and blades and more gears and another tub, some mechanism of death which used to glide so smoothly with greased bearings and oiled joints. Or, it was a washing machine, to make the work of cleaning clothes more repetitive but effortless. The handles have come to worms, and the timeworn glass sparkles in the earth.
My heart was a trillium, always of three parts. Was both new and old, and current. And came in May and wilted in June, in the new heat. Under the sun it was famished, parched, distressed, and so it sought the canopy of forest. As old as it was it stayed low, and blossomed once, briefly, each year. My heart was a trillium, protected but vulnerable.
In the woods, there are old things. There are machines, now obsolete. There are the shards of dishes and containers, bottles and bowls and oil cans and barrels and plates and buckets piled on the side of a steep gorge at the edge of a field that meant everything, and everything below was invisible. There is trash in the woods and there are also old things, and the dirt once towered above to slowly let sun filter through, and it’s all been through the ravenous gut of fungi more than once. There are old things in the woods.
I know now my heart is a bone. I know most hearts are muscles but mine is a bone that rattles at some minute fracture as it beats. It is bleached and soft where it touches the dirt, and is mostly intact; the marrow remains. It is brittle but it glows in the moon. And the lines it cleaves upon are long and straight; under the lightest tread it becomes an edge. My heart glows in the moon and is soft where it touches the dirt, and it cleaves to an edge.