"Haibun of This Heart’s Insides" by Leo Smith
Growing humidity is concealed behind a trapdoor of secrets. Air
is thick with the stillness of shame. They say heat gathers at the
ceiling and drips down, oozing lament. Formerly known as a cavity
that couldn’t protect itself, this heart keeps humans out. Carefully
adorns walls with bone marrow blades, tucks trip wire between
ventricles. Overworked box fans; moans of anguish.
This room wants more. After everything goes dark, a rusted voice
reveals its wishes. “To crack the windows. Rip the roof off. Come
above ground.” A breeze is tempting to a chin slicked with sweat.
The tremble of a latch as airplanes pass overhead.
Solitude congealed:
savior self confined, but
almost emerging.
Leo Smith (they/them) is a Black, queer transmasc poet from Inglewood, CA. They are the author of The Body’s Owner Speaks (Black Sunflowers Poetry Press, 2023) and a Writer-in-Residence at City Books in Pittsburgh, PA. Their work appears in ANMLY, Spilt Milk, and elsewhere. Leo’s upcoming projects focus on ancestral lineage and queer childhood. Follow their Instagram @sun.ruled.
