New poem. Rough draft. Just written in the past twenty minutes.
I put a new knife to my chest,
make a thin incision in the skin
and pull it back slowly and with care.
I use the four fingers on my left hand
to hollow through the flesh,
and scoop out my sick organ.
Look at it, my ghost heart,
half its original size, but heavy,
heavy as the air I had to breathe
on the silent days I had to wait
before being taken down by your crossfire.
Here, move it around on your palm.
Notice how quiet it is. Not even a hum.
And pale. Pale as the bare knuckles
of a hunter in winter. Pale as the bones
of lost children licked clean by the sea.
Pale as the candles I am burning
from sun up to sun down to sun up.
Now, give it back to me. I must care for it
until it is soft and red and wet.
Until it speaks again, until it sings.