Every day I think you have to talk to her.
But mornings go on blithely, sinus rhythm
louder than my will. My tongue takes
no part – I give her a book, my heart
loves books. I find it hidden under
the gall bladder. I show her Metasequoia,
teach the term invagination – she reaches
up to hush that lullabye. My heart wants
her blood to be the thing she never
thinks of, unconscious rush. My heart
will not become another organ –
oh, uterus, my heart does not wish
her future to unfold the way you have.
She wants to chatter with the other hearts,
swinging in their pericardia, giggling
in those heart-hammocks, eat cinnamon
candies while they dip tampons into red
Kool-Aid, learn this new term – staunch.