Geppetto formed my heart
from a Travertine stone
he found years before the log
that became me.

At night he slept
with the stone placed
beneath his quivering tongue;
his dreams
stole upon him (in the easy manner
of music and smells) causing his tongue
to slide around the travertine
and words to escape as runes
into the pores of the stone.

That stone soaked up his spittle,
with each nightmare, a rhythm
set within; was warmed
by the morning light
that entered through the window
to redden his cheek
each new day.

During the hours when he worked,
or searched
for something to fill the emptiness
in his life
he kept the stone in a purse made
from doe skin
placed around his neck
with a thong made
from the gut of an old Tabby cat
and nestled beside the skin
beneath which his own heart

I became his child
the moment that heart
found its niche
inside my chest.