Back from the butterflies, and the black blackjack jackdaws
their windy wing wing world, she gives me a jelly heart,
a wholly inscribed history of how and hie she found

with sound, grease and wire, leaves scattered literati-like beyond
all recognition. She says your valves are the gate keepers,
the bouncers who decide what bossy blood gets in before

the liver has its say. It’s all about electricity, glib as that may
be, and I want to mute the heart’s noisemakers, take away
her hired help. Maybe it’s too soon, too spiritual, too smash

to trick those stars, and maybe I want most to throttle through
until my limbs catch fire. I remember the train roar
down both arms as something alien descended my pipes,

the squeeze and the bees, the sting of it, and it reminds me
that I am not the administrator of my amongst, not the apologist
of my abandonment. Above this pinning politic, above this

fancy feeling I fly, and what’s left are some candles, a glass
crucifix, my most moving mother-may-I to ever watermark
my wheezing and stuck fluttery whatever, ever.