Mine swallowed the dark.
Tonight it’s a blood-red velvet moon,
forgetful of the hour.
Yours is a many-limbed
med-school toy: yellow for valve,
blue aorta, rusty blood
on a wild water ride.
The surgeon is young.
The surgeon is old.
There are so many surgeons,
so much metal,
the shot clock sending its stick
around and around. Shoot,
it says. Air it out.
It says, Nothing ventured.
The heart is every little engine: the cat’s
sure flutter; the great horse
with the hammer inside;
your delicate, rushed, bone-bound
flywheel fresh from the book
of miracles. All
stop in time, watch
unwound, somber moon set
over a quiet field,
bright just hours ago.
Posted for OpenLinkNight #12, dVerse Poets Pub