I Was There When The Heart Fell Out of It

This poem originally appeared in issue 3.3 of Ballast Journal. You can see the whole issue, as well as listen to a recording of me reading this poem here.

I was there when the heart fell out of it. We were trying to slip it by in the night, from roof to roof, and there it went tumbling down the lightwell toward some birdshit bottom. 

A heart is a hard thing to find — especially at night. The rest of the thing didn’t work so well without it: even when we tried to dress it up, double-breasted, leather apron, brass buckle, yellow tie, it wouldn’t move. 

The old one said, You’re just gonna have to chuck it. Shits a shit-heap… and that’s coming from a shit-heap. The young one said, Aerate it and screw it down to something. It’ll bounce back with a little air and water. 

But what about the heart? That seemed too obvious to ask, and these two knew more than me. A room is only a room if it has rooms next to it; otherwise it’s just a house. That’s what I was told some time ago. 

One day it got up and walked a little. The whole town came to see it pitch and founder, baby deer and aimless. I doubt it could see. The young one said, See, now look at that. And the old one stayed quiet. 

The old one said to me later, That was just a deathwalk. That was just the old ghost heading out. And he was right, it turned out. It didn’t get any better after that. It went back to its place, took a seat and stayed that way. And then we chucked it.