This liver,

Slick totem of providence,

So 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 meticulous way,

Now look at this mess,

In the 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,

Stardust converged,

Upon magnets of love,

Forging him in our fires,

Under the cold red sunrise.

 

I sew him back up,

So that his organs,

Can give way to putrescence,

And we can forget,

The salty air,

And the twitching curtains,

Of the white cottage.

 

All I can do is

Smooth the white shroud,

Shut the drawer,

And leave a scrawling of ink,

On a dotted line,

That only stayed empty,

For eighteen years.