Dead heart, it hangs on a thin blue strap.
It was well cared for. It is still beautiful.
A million years ago, it may have stampeded
with the herds of leather bodies here
or connived with them as conclave
of medieval Florentines. Ugolinos all,
the bigger bags are stuffed with smaller purses.
Now they come rolled on a hook in silence,
straight for the Guelphdom of my body:
my bloated Duomo, narrow arteries, old cells
sent into exile-death. The zippered heart
is cold. I hold it like a twin removed
from my own abdomen: cupped easily
in my strange, hairless, elongated hand.
David Keplinger is the author of several collections of poetry, including Great Pond, Ice, and Another City (all from Milkweed). His awards include the UNT Rilke Prize and Rome Prize.
Photo by Jonathan Körner on Unsplash
