arrhythmia

sometimes
the heart jumps
out of the throat.

it becomes a thud
on the hardwood floor.

you're not shocked anymore.
you just wipe the outlines of blood
with a paper towel,
like it was a conglomeration of water.

you're just a stone statue
standing over this thing,
swearing to god
you're going to leave it there
until
it behaves.

but it never does,
and at this point
asking for a truce
is just asking for another war.

so you scrap it off the ground
like it's a piece of dried gum
and you swallow what's left.

restoration

this house ain't easy.
before you know it,
there are cobwebs growing in the corners,
and no matter how much the attempt,
the plants 
look like they haven't been fed in days.

in the garden,
underneath the weeds and 
the mulch,
lies the bones of a population
of prayers.

every one of them is there.

when it rains,
this roof ain't nothing but a leak,
and the buckets you leave
were never big enough
to catch all the water.

but goddamn,
even through it,
somehow,
we try to restore.