Heart Massage

The swift explodes into feathers
plunges over the field
then rises, in death
flying in the falcon's talons.
Its life torn apart
to feed more life
and in secret.

You would not lament
this moment, growing it
as a song, a third heart
within your voice
within your hands
which I still remember, love

their scent of fresh turned earth
even on the gurney in that ER.
Your body plowed
with wires and tubes
the stray bullet in your side
and for no reason.
Your heart massaged to nothing
at an altar of monitors.

Simply walking to work
And then
And then
Still no sky in my dreams of you.
Still nothing when I hear your voice
And turn to see

and turn to nothing
god

Robert Pesich's work has recently appeared in The Bitter Oleander, The Porter Gulch Review, Skidrow Penthouse and is forthcoming in Red Wheelbarrow. In 2009, he completed a one-month residency at the Djerassi Resident Artist Program and was awarded the Littoral Press Poetry Prize. In 2001, Dragonfly Press published his chapbook Burned Kilim. He lives in Sunnyvale, California with his wife and two sons.