Watermelon juice stains my hands,
the rivulets running like another set of arteries.
I grow a second heart in the summer,
the double-beat for saltwater and humid frog-nights.

I waste the beat on someone else’s music, but it’s mine to waste.
My bones feel too weak for real feathers; I’ll dream them instead.
I’m a pretender pretending,
but I love my life too much to find another.

Double heart means double love.
Maybe I grew the second long ago and never lost it;
even mountain snow can make them skip, despite the winter frost.
I’ve yet to fall for a human, but I can see the plunge before me.

I wish my two hearts and my bones were stronger than my mind,
so my dream feathers could sprout from my living skin.
I wouldn’t need more than one life, then
to hold all the love I have for living.