open heart

Under no illusion that the beating
heart of the salmon taken in its

prime through luckless netting
now pulsing in the fisher’s palm

gives any illustration of life
as if the heart might magically

be replaced into the pile of pink
fillets under the sun the same

dull color as our costly high-tech
camouflage though we never

asked to be plunked here to
receive garbled static and

better to make poetry of it. If
it is survival of the fittest the

one who stands at the end will
be enshrouded in protective

gear over your open chest as
your heart still beats and you

will be anaesthetized and old
beyond caring and you will have

slipped many surly traps in this
life believing love’s golden trap

has become the best of you
when they pronounce your

name inaccurately. We never
asked for any of this only the

love the heart symbolizes while
your beloveds await in the

wash of artificial light to hear
your prognosis half expecting

to witness your heart held
up like a spoil of victory.