Last-Ditch

The dull, rhythmic beeps of machinery. I wake
in white light to a man standing over me.

You’ve made it, he says.

On my chest—the hot sting of wet stitches.
What happened? I ask.

A last-ditch effort, the man says.
We took out your heart & replaced it
with a horse’s.

What?

Wait, no, no, sorry, I am mistaken, you got
the hawk’s.

The tiny pulsing in my chest says it all.

Poor guy donated his body to science, his tree
got cut.

Why?

For beef, of course.

No. Why did you give me a hawk heart?

The man’s face wilts, then:
Yes, it’s extreme but it’s the only thing
we could think of, at this point.

Where is my heart? I say, The human one.

You mean the one you weren't
really using.

Yes. I mean, no.

Look out the window, he says. Tell me
what you see.

I lift my head from the bed: I see
sorrow. I see every blade of grass
on fire. The willow tree—
weeping, no screaming, at the top of its lungs.

Grant Chemidlin is a queer poet and currently, an MFA candidate at Antioch University-Los Angeles. Recent work has been published or forthcoming in Quarterly West, Iron Horse Literary Review, Tupelo Quarterly, and River Heron Review, among others.