The Wrong Place
I’ll probably never see my own heart.
I mean, I’ve seen the waves of its beat,
its bruised spectrum on a screen,
the rap sheet of its arrest.
I’ve felt it beat itself to blackouts,
boom forwards for freedom,
panic itself to stillness,
pulsate into snow-white ecstasy.
I’ve heard it like a conch;
closed my ears and listened.
The soft-sweet beat of life
flooding me with my mum’s love.
I wish I could hold her without dying.
Take her out of her cage and stroke her,
for a while. Tell her, I’m sorry for the cigs,
the drugs, the late nights, the starvation.
I love you.
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