Poets' Practice Pad

To My Liver

They say you love me enough
to clean up after me, without a complaint
as you let the sap run around,
some days wilder than others.

On a downward wave, you could
break a person if you wanted to,
and rob her of her color, her desires,
her dominance, her mind,
but you decide to speak in whispers,
implying your existence.

When I think further, I admit your might,
since you unfold like the universe,
the bile bubbling into one big bang
drawing blood as if something sinister,
while still looking like your kin
in the butcher shop’s display case,
feral red, angling to attack for
being separated from its rightful owner,
or maybe just plain ticked off
at a future merging with smelly onions
inside a suburbanite’s frying pan.

Never fear, at the end, when all voices
die and fall away, we’ll stay together,
at behests of other organs,
to be fed to the hungry earth,
and I shall atone for being human so often,
while the static on the receiving line
signals a dread of becoming forgotten.




Sig by karjia96

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