Flags of Confusion

My heart
is a tiny drum
snare brushed
by hummingbird feathers.
A ringing ocean.
A turning tide.
It puts in the time
starfish splayed
and clinging to the
rocks under the
surf smashed sun.
When it was young
it murmured sad omens
of long black hours
when it would not
have hands to hold
the reins of words
that turned the world
into flags of confusion.
To plant a seed
in the heart of my heart
I have to hide it
in the untouched corner
of the sky.
All that lasts
in the middle of my middle
is a story
about a laughing schoolbus,
a rusting tractor
and an angry woman.