by Ingrid Showalter Swift
Hearts sliced from the same red felt
with exactly the same slight curve to the left;
beating in perfect linear rhythm
completely synchronized, even with distance;
my/your hand rises.
I am not well- you become ill;
you are scared- I shudder;
you long with the power of ocean tides- I flow
with deep currents to the shore;
you cry- tears flow like wine from the deep somewhere
in my forgotten vineyard,
moving unaware to your 'how can this be' beat.
I am kidnapped by the undertoe
of your feelings and emotions and your mind'
that are my own- yours
beating out our tapping, always.
I am alone and am never alone. I will never know,
sliced as I am from soft furry red felt.