Maria Giesbrecht

THIS IS ALL I KNOW ABOUT HAVING A HEART

It never happens twice,

the beluga blows,

the sun hangs grey and washed,

like an old comforter

on a grandmother’s clothesline.

We are quickly fucked

under a sunset, like lace in an oven.

To have a heart

is to have a task, to have a heart

I know, sounds

like gravity had a baby,

but it didn’t—it’s just

floating on the first rib—

the original error of life.

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