My Heart

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I’ve discovered a hole in it.
What caused it, or how long it’s been there,
or what, if anything, has leaked out,
I can’t say. I shake my heart
as I would a Christmas present,
but I don’t feel anything inside,
can’t figure out how to open it.
It has the same fist shape
as a conch, the same airy sound
when I hold the hole to my ear.
What else to do but set it on the mantle,
next to the clock and pair of lit candles:
an object among objects I pass by.

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