Pull through the suture,
scissors snip the stitch
and out slides the thread;
the knot unravels—the heart
is dead. Septic sewage of Cupid
who beguiled Love with the killer bow?
Arrow piercing heart:
artifice burst, gushing
babygirl red, velvet spool
cascading from chest cavity
filled with rotten fruit
labored—breath and sigh
from a molding mind.
Pull through the suture,
douse the wound in alcohol
again, Saturday at 2am;
pour the wine, babygirl.
This antiseptic stomach strategy
of a liver-processed comedy
unforeseen, detoxifying romcom dream;
Just blow the kiss, babygirl
bat a lash—hit a home run,
kick up the sand and don't look back.
Slide through visionless
touch of time, touch of a man who isn't
him, swirling at the bottom
of a glass stained with 2am.
Snip the stitch, Love,
the suture drips blood
of poisoned organ—oxygen
exposed to flesh; the flies will come,
it will be a feast
of the body undone.
(The original version of this poem is now published in The Foundationalist: https://issuu.com/thefoundationalist/docs/the_foundationalist_volume_v__issue_i )