There should be a name for
the fleshiest of organs, the old
drunken pump, swilling blood
and oxygen, spilling it all over
my body to each globe of hunger,
churning this dark animal plasma
to bright hemoglobin, yet somehow
enfolding in its cave of bone, it's
gristle of night a throng of galaxies,
the rimless possibility and swirl
of a starless Beyond that, ah,
not even God has yet explored:
I call it my Heart. But really,
it's the portal to another thirst, a
yearning for the beaten and beatific
face of the unnameable. Still,
I call it my Heart.
Photo by Kristy Thompson
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