Reticula

With the blood of a poet and the heart of

A river, cut out that same heart to get

Rid of the stink and the pleasure. With

Its ventricles and twistings merely a

Pistol-pump, a fountainhead into which

You dump all your feels and love.

Fishbelly white in the thinnest shard

Of light, skin dry as a chieftain’s ankle

And just as white. I split my palm against

A lipless glass and feel the seeds

At the bottom where I bleed. My blood

Like a red egg yolk floats immiscible

On top of the water.

Christ walked on it,

So why should I fall under?