I Heart

This begins at Desire. It begins in a space where once ailing bodies convalesced and where now other modes of recuperation take place. It begins with a peculiar propensity for a certain kind of precious. A penchant for the ritualistic. Matter made a chant. Bodily remnants made dear.

A carpenter, who, in dove—
tailing a piece of wood, ran
a chisel through his heart and

This begins again with a body, my body, another site. A body permeated by questions of possession. A body stirred through its encounter with matter and meaning coalesced in pockets, in chambers, of display. A body, my body, stirring, wavering, pulsing, disturbing. Faced with another corporeal fragment and the heaving, humming presence of the absence it provokes. A heart, just the heart. I feel the excess. Desire, too, is predicated on that which is absent. It is contingent. It is potential waiting to be released, discharged.