Heart Transplant


is done. She

was lost in the palm,

lines that closed around her

trembling fingers, but:

now she is found in

the cold and open


Bones of stones

strengthened in their

impurities. Against the

elemental. Less empowered

with pockets

of wordless language;

a potent potion of lips she drew

about her from the warm

sea of their eyes—his eyes,

those green of eden

irises encompassing her

paradise. Shattered is the looking

glass and a blade of fire guards; she

would suffer so sweetly for

a chance to put humpty dumpty

back together. But

she could never

walk on eggshells.

Her ribcage is a fist without

the magnetic, electric

touch to open her chest;

to hold the blood leaking

into her lungs. The curls

of red in her eyes

(rain spiriting away)

are falling from

her head onto the ground her soles

seek in clamber

for the comfort of familiar.

Release with a slash across

her chest and stone-cold hands

dragging the final

protestor from its encampment

to bury in their ashes. Never

to drown in her own

lungs again but always

lacking a breath.

She is finished

and throws her head back.