White Widow

She says, “Bring me your gallbladder
on a plate, a platter, a piece a of paper that
wears your name.” She’s always thought hearts

too small, too full of break to worry over.
Take something with the bile in it, with the
excess. Toxins weigh more than love.

There’s a heft one can sink their
grief into. A meat if you will. She likes
the gristle in her teeth, the sinewy savor.

And the truth?
They all offer her their hearts anyway.
She’s bored of those little red blooms.

Give her the alabaster of bones, the pale
sweet of organ meats, the whites of your eyes.
She says she will give them back.



Image taken with iphone
Words written in a coffee shop in Seattle
Brain on fairy tales, body parts, the weight of worry
Ears on Michelle Shocked

This entry was published on January 4, 2012 at 9:53 am and is filed under January, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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