by Ellen R. Collins
This heart of mine
ticking in the hollow of my ribs,
so soaked in blood
and replete with sin.
If loving another
stains my skin
with the mark of Cain,
I will part my bangs
and let the world bear witness
to my wickedness.
I’ll let them watch as my love
bores through my skin,
see them witness it
as it seeps from my eyes.
If hell is found
in the arms of my lover,
I pray never to be a holy man.
Heavenly Father,
would I be divine
if I stripped my body
of this love?
If I rid my ribs of this
rhythmic ticking?
If I left the bones in my chest
to creak and groan,
like the floorboards of a house
left abandoned in the meadow.
RRCC 