INSTRUCTIONS FOR A HEART IN WINTER

First: warm your hands.
A heart will not speak
to cold fingers.

Second: listen for the echo.
Not the pump, not the tick,
the echo: the soft rebound
of someone else’s longing
inside your ribs.

Third: lay the heart on a flat surface,
preferably a kitchen counter
still dusted with flour
from the last meal
you made with someone you loved
or wished you loved.

Fourth: examine the sutures.
Everyone has them:
tiny braids of light where a wound
decided to stay.

Fifth: ask the heart its true name.
If it answers with birdsong,
translate gently.
If it answers with an animal cry,
translate honestly.
If it refuses to answer,
wrap it in a warmed towel
and wait. Waiting
is also a truth.

Sixth: carry the heart outside
into the first snowfall.
Let flakes strike the muscle
like brief permissions.
Hold it up to the sky
and listen again.

Final instruction:
return the heart to your chest
without apology.
Press lightly until you feel
a small resistance:
a sparrow fluttering
in the rafters of your breath.

When it settles,
go back inside.
Wash your hands.
Write down everything
you were afraid to remember.