The Secret of Hers

She gives me a safe-like box.
“Don’t open it!”
I don’t see a lock on it.
Her secret in this small case?
But I don’t try to open it
‘cause I love her

The safe might be empty;
it might reek of decaying bug;
Ah! the container might contain her un-lovable look,
I will still love her, though.

“So, will you open it or not?”

The empty safe will make me laugh away.
I can just trash a dead bug in it.
Her unlovable look cherished in there
will make me love her more.

She takes the safe away from me;
my daydream is broken.
The small box is sinking deep in the pond.
Her secret becomes a secret for good just like this.

I measure the depth of the tarn.
in secret.

A Daydream during the Last Holy Week

During the last Holy Week
my heart was unusually hammering
not because Mary Magdalene’s heart
was transplanted to me,
which was yearning for Jesus’ Resurrection
but because my woman’s heart was thumping in me,
who would meet me on Easter Day for the first time.
Mary Magdalene’s heart that met Jesus
became the calm Galilee,
but why is the woman’s heart that met me
still whirling like the Tiberias under a storm?
Because of me who was pacing around
in front of the wide-open door and couldn’t enter?
During the next year’s Holy Week
would my heart be pounding instead of her heart?