Saturday, December 18, 2004

Ventricle

A man held a heart;
An ornament. At small intervals
He’d examine the vast corridors,
Pathways; he’d lay a finger
Over the beating tunnels
Trying to find an exit.
His meals consisted of organs:
Chicken's, turkey's, sautéed in butter,
He’d add stems of garlic,
Heads of onions
Till it was a communion.
He was the reaper,
Gatekeeper. The same man
Who laid his ear
On the flannel vest of his father,
Who said, beat, stop, beat again.
This is more than a story.
Here is the man, the red heart
And the pot boiling over.
The reader needs to know
Truth. Does the man live?
Always there is heart
Singing outside, a man
Making meals of things
He cannot swallow.

2 comments:

Unknown said...

I like this. Maybe you should put together a few strange pieces to submit.

early hours of sky said...

Thanks Didi, I will. It seems all the pieces are strange lately. The effects of the holiday season. Hope things are well with you and I get to see you in January, Teresa