I hate preparing the heart,
a mass of muscle that slumps
on the stone counter and waits,
still and soundless,
for me to wash it, remove
the crimson veins and clots.
For weeks I dream of the heart
as a bell sleeping high in the body,
waiting for strong hands to tug
the chord and draw out its music.
How many young women
idle away their lives
waiting for the one kiss
from the one mouth that bestows
sweet, drunken nights of music?
In the kitchen, I wonder why
the body is kept alive
by a muscle that can flutter
at a single touch on the cheek,
that can leap
at the sheer whisper
of the word love
as if it were a whole
carillon of wedding bells.