Every day I think you have to talk to her.

But mornings go on blithely, sinus rhythm

louder than my will. My tongue takes

no part – I give her a book, my heart

loves books. I find it hidden under

the gall bladder. I show her Metasequoia,

teach the term invagination – she reaches

up to hush that lullabye. My heart wants

her blood to be the thing she never
thinks of, unconscious rush. My heart 

will not become another organ – 

oh, uterus, my heart does not wish

her future to unfold the way you have.

She wants to chatter with the other hearts,

swinging in their pericardia, giggling
in those heart-hammocks, eat cinnamon

candies while they dip tampons into red
Kool-Aid, learn this new term – staunch.