This liver,

Was formed in a crucible of love,

So smooth and perfect,

Until the bullet-hole.

 

It once belonged to a boy,

Who played by the river,

Who fell in love three times,

Who didn’t know his father,

Who sang to forget,

And drank to remember.

 

Every organ was packed,

In a special way,

Now look at this mess,

In this surgical tray.

 

What will his mother say?

This wasn’t planned,

That these relics of love,

Would be in my hand.

 

On the rocks by the white cottage,

Is where he was made,

Where stardust converged,

Upon magnets of love,

Clamped to each other,

Where limpets’ teeth clung to the rock,

As human flesh banged against them,

And the sunrise crept cold and red,

Over the tops of the cliffs.

 

Every stitch in his hide,

Is another insult,

I sew him back up,

So that his organs,

Can give way to putrescence,

And we can forget,

The sand and the cold, salty air,

The limpets and the cliffs,

And the twitching curtains,

Of the white cottage,

Tinking against their thin windows.

 

Smooth the white shroud,

Slide the drawer shut,

And leave scrawlings of ink,

On a clipboard’s dotted line,

That only stayed empty,

For eighteen years.