Birds do it.
Even my cat leaves one warm
corpse by my favorite chair.
Headless, legless, hard to scoop up
tiny spleen spilling out.
Even my sister refused keeping, left
on her terms, all blood and tissue
in the toilet. Let’s be all about the love,
we say, and next thing we’re stoned
in the plasma glow, Hannibal
mining our minds for stories, stealing
the child of our scripted memory,
serving it back on a plate.
The heart prefers not to be seen.
The heart harbors a twin in its left
ventricle. lub dub lub dub
Moon bites her nail to the quick.
Sometimes I get this merciless lust
body on tongue, blood
down the back of my throat, Jesus
just alright with me.
It’s a good day for writing poems.
It’s a good year for going outside.
Just once, I’d like to stay on track,
remain tied to the chair,
see this fool thing through.