Open Heart
We are not unlike pigs, if only they
stood proudly on two legs, wrote limericks,
ran races by day, businesses by night.
Holding my breath, I stare into the steel
reflection of the scalpel, stainlessly
negotiating the bloody terrain
of this man’s wish-broken car-trampled heart.
While the surgeon works deftly carving this
new home for a porcine graft, I wonder
how my hands would be: apologetic,
curt. For what would you say if, coming home,
you saw a pile of straw, a starving wolf,
a huff, a puff, a piggy dream cut out?
Sunday, May 11, 2008
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