Green heart
growing on a branch in my
backyard, beating
a tangy whitegold pulse,
tiny brown atria stemmed
from tiny white septa.

I pick up the clippers you gave me
and put them down again:
unnecessary.
All I need for the job,
one trusty kitchen knife,
two trusty hands.

Reach through the open window.
Grab.
Twist.
Pluck.
Slice.

With crisp fresh heartflesh in
my mouth, I smile:
whitegold bloody teeth
tartbeat pulsing down my neck.