Prolapse of the Heart

Prolapse of the Heart

the heart’s not real
I think sometimes.

a figment of sonnets and odes
falsetto lyrics and electric jazz

a pulsar of good good good vibrations
knocking the cage that protects this chest.

there must only exist a shallow pool
drowning while laureling the ribs

(whose handsome claws refer me back to the heart) like
dirty dish water sluicing and cresting in temperament.

the chest is but a closed current – or even shallower
– suffering particle impurity, carrying all those

suggestions of grace in the drops of abuse and use
and the cyclical craving for more use, bone-rattling

(a claim made by the ribs). it’s gruesome and I’m tired
of whatever goes on within the body,

which is not my realm, this thick skin of
the soul (on which don’t get me started)

and so the heart is a figment
a figurine, a forget-me-not,

a filament, a phrase, a phase
a feckless attempt to be moving

by which I mean in love.


(Image source:

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