Sometimes my heart is a sun
Sometimes it is a rock
I go into a room and find the sun opening
It exists to see the drawings of children hung in school windows
They are not there long enough for their colors to fade
And then I read about the death of Max Jacob
How he reached out to all his friends with the fingers of his heart
Trying to save his sister from Auschwitz
And he was told by his important friends
We cannot save an unimportant person; however, if it was you…
And then the police come for him
He reaches out to all his important friends with the fingers of his heart
Writing a letter with the fingers of his heart reaching
And they tell him reality is closing about them like a nun
Their hearts are not stones not suns but parcels of reality
The strong young arms take him to Drancy where he tries to amuse others
on the way to the gas chamber where his sister has gone before
Only he never knows. knowing is not a sun
Knowing is a moon
It changes shape in your hearts
It rises and sets
And he dies in the penultimate place
Telling horoscopes and raving about Jesus
And his ask lingers in the minds of his friends
When he is ashes that hold the shape of whatever vessel
Cares to hold them
And they say “poor Max” but hold a form of pity
That is not him and not them and not a sun