Heart
       

A bad word
in a poem, smutmouth.

Now wipe the shine
from your lips.

Bordeaux-soaked impulse
murmuring below speech.

You sound like
a limp,

a little ghost
and its echo.

You touch every dead part,
even the toes, farthest
from God.

Hospitals of blood
lie sleepless
in your caverns.

Even tucked inside
the darkness of the body
you will not last.

Quiver of jelly
that collapses a life.

You stole my father
in his sleep.

Flayed fist of twitches
bursting, bound.

Servant with numerous
incisions.

Master
with too many mouths.

A furnace of tongues.

Press your ear
to the wound.

Here the dead sing.

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Copyright © 2017 Hadara Bar-Nadav All rights reserved
from The New Nudity
Saturnalia Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission