If I could reach inside my chest
and part the pinkish pulp within,
I’d crack pale arcs and toss aside
my ribs like old wishbones.
If I could cup my heart, I would
and gently shake: why do you hurt?
Unravel the lines and little veins
that cling, like dormant loves.
In hand, the pain is a little thing
I tip it over, blood run out
and drink the pulp and suck the bone
til all that’s left is dry.
That noxious scent of smoke, and you,
would eddy from my blood to air.
I’m all undone now, gasping hole
the only red leftover.
like a door unlatched,
I’d pick up my heart,
and put it back.