By Christopher Arkwright
•   •   •
The constriction of a heart
Leaves a hole in the ecosystem
Of the body

Like a jungle without a sun
To grow its trees
Which stand straight as blades of grass

And the mossy stones below
On which the dew of separation

With spores encapsulating
small, furry spheres, now legged
Unnatural gremlins that pray

On the thoughts of the other
And find calm 
In the flesh of memory

But memory does not keep
If not devoured in an instant
It will melt, or rot or float away

Next to logs
Whole jungles falling
Off the edge of the world

Into space, where it finds a speck on which to grow
With nothing to breathe by
Nothing to hear by

But everything to see
The sun with no gaseous shield
Is more brilliant.

And so the jungle regrows
With purple leaves and yellow snakes
Which bark with triple-fanged mouths

And slither perpendicular up orange trees
Here the heart finds it’s hammock
Swinging back and forth, up and down

The earth’s brazen hold does not apply
It does not multiply
It does not even touch 

A terraforming heart
•   •   •
Christopher Arkwright is a poet, scientist and budding swordsman. He is upcoming in: Maudlin House, the Eyre magazine and the Lane Cove literary awards anthology, among others. His great loves (that aren’t people) include: nature, gothic architecture and admiring swords. Find him on Instagram @swordsman135.

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