Held my own heart in my hands and quietly considered myself.
Slid it together along the vivisection lines like a puzzle,
A Djinn’s broken lamp after an earthquake.
Ready to fall apart, it no longer held as it had done all those years.
The muscle thick with weakness and clipped wires and scars,
A half-seared roast basted with candle wax.
They won’t let me keep it no matter how many times I ask.
It is not a discarded umbilical cord or tonsils in a jar,
And it was mine long enough.
Someone else had one they weren’t using to loan me.
Not sure what to think about the fairness of that,
No matter how hard I try not to.
So here I am, four good years later with a good-hearted woman beside me.
Breathing, beating, winning, working, writing,
Learning what the heart possesses is transferable.
Originally published in the 2010 farewell issue of Poesia.
Digital Exile 