There it is
My heart pinned down,
Shifting shoulders shoved back
On the dissecting tray like
A dead animal so its beats
Slow down until they’re faint
Whimpers coming from a sad mouth.
So you can see where the mad
Parts are in the corner;
Hunched like famished wolves
The happy parts reside, you can
See the lonely clouds come in and
Out over the peaks of memories
That are dripped in snow.
You can see it all, sterile on the tray
But you could have seen it
In my face too, written in the
Circles in my eyes, like tree trunks.
You didn’t have to shove me on the ground
Under a magnifying glass.
You can poke the sharp tools at the
Pink organic skin and feel
The heart breathing, lungs pulsing.
There are balloons attached
To the love, to the sad
That float above the tray.
You can’t point your sharp tools at
Them because of their rubbery skin,
Falling like garbage to the ground.
The balloons frame faces like
Pictures of landscapes and sometimes
They’re tied so close to my
Heart that the rubber seems to graze the
Snow capped mountains and
Other times, the balloons are so far away.
Those with the distance have scissors in their
Pockets and those close are so fragile
In their proximity.
So every effort I’ve made to float above
The dissecting tray becomes nothing.
So there we lay,
My heart and her balloons
Like a rare spectacle in the lab
Because it grew mountains and
Valleys and rivers in the veins of my
Bloodstream- because the balloons
Are the closest scientists have come
To studying my love, my sadness, to
The humanness of humanity;
Because maybe the heart can’t be
Scientifically dissected without cutting
Loose the strings.
Poking at the anger will only make it worse,
And the mountains of memories will never stop
Growing, my veins carrying the remnants of a
Good life, my sadness, my anger, my love are
A thriving natural world not ready for the
Sterility of explanation.