I went to one of Sofie Layton’s wonderful workshops around this work and ended up contributing a poem to the exhibition. This is not it…but a sideways take I found during my research.
His Heart
The earth is suffocating. Swear to make them cut me open, so that I won’t be buried alive.
Chopin on his death bed, 1849
Smuggled by his sister
back into his homeland
past Russian guards
sealed in a jar of cognac
interred in a Warsaw crypt
conferred on an SS officer
who admired his music
returned to the Holy Cross
examined for cause of death:
pericarditis, chronic tuberculosis.
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