Pardon my heart if it ruins your party.
It’s a large, American heart and has had
a good deal to drink. It’s a pretty bad
dancer—too much feeling, too little technique.
It may sing some godless hymns, about ousting
armies of loneliness, about marching
victorious to wives and towns beneath
a heart-colored dusk. Pardon my heart
if it closes its eyes for hours,
whispering rapture over and over.
Pardon my heart if it laughs too loudly,
or if it tells many of its stories
too ardently. Pardon my heart if it rests
an arm across you or your friends’ shoulders—
touch allows my heart to trust that it’s not
imagining your company’s loveliness.
Pardon my heart if you have to kick it out.
After you’ve muzzled the music and brightened
the lights to tidy, my heart will ignore
and keep doing its little two-step, aglow
in the middle of the room, never
happier to have nowhere else to go.