portion of the artwork for Christine Reilly's poetry

Christine Reilly

The heart is made of flour. But
both of your hands are broken.

You smoke the heart. She leaves an aftertaste
like molasses, or electricity, in the folds of your throat.

You slice the heart, and the meat disappears. Instead of
paralyzing the heart, as your intention, you have instead aborted the heart.

You bury the heart. Under the topsoil, you can hear it
mouthing a single word. Yoooou. Or perhaps, moooo.

The heart does not believe in accident. If you listen, you can still
picture her: her clumsy tongue, her violent pulse.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 34 | Fall 2011