The heart has to come completely
out of the body.
Lift now, hold now–I could explain
The smoldering wires before
the house fire.
The growths that grow back,
at even the cleanest margins, at the threshold
of the tree line.
The body is a lie.
If I were to say
a copse of, does that mean anything,
further the number
of burr holes in the Ash tree as it loses limb
and limb–O Emerald
Ash Borer, your jeweled metastases,
your larvaes’ serpentine
feeding galleries. If I say the lakes here
look like fingers,
and the patches of milfoil, myrio,
meaning ten thousand,
meaning too many to count, spread
like the exanthem of disease–
But in this painting by George Boorujy
a blue jay is “anting,”
sitting and spreading its wings
in the dirt,
letting ants crawl up into its feathers
to eat the mites.
As in one infestation
can cure another.
I am a pioneer of the artificial heart.
A garden hose
with too much pressure
Fever of unknown
The body of the lake
a body all around me
tingling with milfoil. There is no cure.
I want to unstory this story,
patent this invention, this pump
My pill-box heart, wooden arms
spasms in the limbs:
of hospital gauze and desire.
I begin to empty of blood.
The heart valves, little lub-dub mouths,
they snap shut.
I Am a Pioneer of the Artificial Heart
1 August 2016