Written by Albertine Clarke
Had I known that he was a heart-eater,
I would not be lying upon this table
Covered in damp towels, to soak up the blood.
He is cracking open my ribs
With a pair of hedge-cutters.
Liquid bubbles up from my chest cavity
And runs down over my arms
Warm and wet and red,
The towels bloomed with red flowers.
He had promised to minimise
The damage, but of course,
A degree of mutilation is unavoidable.
The soft, red object in his plastic-gloved
Hands is familiar and unfamiliar.
He puts it in a bag filled with ice.
He has a book of human anatomy,
The organs marked with red
Beneath the monochrome bones.
The corners are stained and dog-eared.
I put my finger over the place
Where a red mark indicates the heart.
Illustration by Phoebe Callaghan