i breathe :
i untie the lace strings of my left lung
and think what can i do
with an aorta that i'd torn right out,
only to put it back in your right pocket. once more.
your lungs are sorrowful swallows full of off-white fumes.
swallowtails bloomingly black as tar as
(i can see the blood seeping through the cotton linings now)
i thought — perhaps i should draw in my broken metal wings again
— though i renounced their steel feathering months ago —
weeping in a malignant medea sort of way
under city lights, christmas lights and scattered
cigarette butts but you didn't see visions of sliced chests such as me; of those malign tear-stained tissues.
(10/12/2017)