Weighing the Hearts of the Dead
Slow is the process,
of lifting organs to the sun.
Cell stratagems unmasked,
a lethal stripping back,
takes inventory of dead passion.
Whose love opened these bloodless games?
Can they decipher loss, longing by scales?
The heart cannot beat again,
or raise from silence,
Under golden cellophane,
Lie the episodic layers of ka and ra time,
threads of sweats, once
heavy frolic water on the brain.
Black bangs swayed, separated.
Beyond earthly ignitions,
jumpstarted by urns and cloth,
Poundage or ephemera?
Still hearts command attention,
when anchored into ceramic serenity.
Swollen, dried, held out for judgment.
Before windís warm hands
fashion a more permanent dust.
© 2008 Barbara Audet