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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