Still life with jigsaw hearts
Richard Manly Heiman
After the doctor hemmed and hawed
and there was no moisture left–
not anywhere–you wore your tan
mask with embryo-silhouette eyes
and I wore mine, albino and smooth.
I never told you how your hair was
lustrous. Plaited like Antigone’s,
strands yanked from birthing stars.
I never said that and we didn’t speak
about any of it any more, after that.
But funny how eccentric your orbit
became…decayed. Or maybe it was
mine. Pointless, trying to put pieces
back into place. Cuneiforms and
trapezoids. Nothing fit. And nothing
left but scarred and barren silence.
I read once, sometimes they’ll cremate,
sometimes landfill. Tomb of the unknown.
Sometimes they’ll toss frozen ghost
smiles aside like trinkets. Pulverized,
like fractured paschal eggshells.
About the writer:
Richard Manly Heiman lives in the pines on the slope of the Sierra Nevada. He works as a substitute teacher and writes when the kids are at recess. Richard’s work has been published by Rattle, Bop Dead City, Spirit Fire Review, Into the Void and elsewhere. He is a two time 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee.