Kevin Young


The heart isn't even
human. Prehistoric,

in the chest it chooses
to beat itself silly.

A bundle of bees
in a hive breathing.

Without warning,
the story it tells

to no one ends--
or begins, a shadow

grown beneath the breast.

and does not fit.
The machines

that do our breathing
in hospitals lie--

the heart is no line
crossing the palm,

no jagged hope--
each green beep

unanchors us.
My wife's belly

in full bloom, my son
starting in his

sudden room. Tonight
I will sweep what

one day will be his,
easing the spiders out

into relentless rain.
Shooing the bees who gather

their arms like honey,
like ours.

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