the monster at the heart of the world

And the monster at the heart of the world
stretches out a claw
slices your heart clean open
and the blood spatters down
like tear drops
and where it falls
new flowers grow

Are they poison?
It's a risk
(isn't life
isn't any of this?)

They smell lovely
and I'm hungry
(where did you go?
why did you go?)

It's your own future, it's your own life
wield your machete
hack with your knife
snip away all you won't miss
carve a path
Do not apologize
Do not look back

Is it crazy?
It's a risk
(isn't life?
isn't any of this?)
I'm just tired.
I don't know.
(where did you go, friend?
why did you go?)


.


For Megan Burnett
May 2, 1989 - August 18, 2019

Keyhole

As I was paying for my purchases at Food Lion tonight, the cashier, a young black woman with a clean-shaven head, big red-framed glasses, and a delightful smile, glanced down and spotted the keyhole tattoo on my ankle.

"What's the significance of the keyhole?" she asked.

I shrugged and stammered. I've struggled with trying to explain it before. I said something along the lines of, "It's a long story. It has a special significance for me, with a certain loved one."

"Ah," she nodded knowingly, slipping the bag with my bread and tortilla chips into the cart.

As I thanked her and was about to walk away, she added, "Does someone else have the key?"

She meant a tattoo, perhaps on their ankle. That would be cute. Especially for a couple to do. She couldn't have meant the other meaning, my meaning, the real answer to her questions.

"Yes," I said, matching her smile. "Yes they do."