Lindsay Bell

My heart is a hard metal object,
objet d’art, pointless, pointillist,
endowed with endless points,
pornographic, my heart is a hard-on,
she is the small descent into wild
idealism, my heart is a heavy
bauble exchanged with a merciful
friend on the sober end of a party;
my heart is on the drunk end,
an ear rubbed raw from watchwords
and sycophantic humping, who
convinces herself of the ethereal
merit of physical lack, my heart,
she is jealous, stays inside, pouts
that no one thought to call, can
afford good wine, but drinks sour,
my heart, she is a tiny fist, swings
with all the forethought and precision
of a trap, nicking a mouse’s tail,
my heart, she is the cheese,
my heart, she stands alone.





This poem was written on my first evening alone in a new apartment, after the breakup of a six year relationship.