Electrokinetic Mass Disguised as a Love LetterFritz Ward
Dear Metaorta Beating I-Am-I-Am-I-Am, so much depends upon the heart dazed with white blood cells. Like Times Square, my Christina begins a countdown to eliminate the plural. Charged with immunity, I gorge on the minutiae of our own passion play. She whispers Jesus for that bit of bleeding I lack. All the slow, pitched kisses devour the vows lodged in my throat. I watch her EKG register depth charges only in retrospect. The after- shock of loss remains, largesse: backlit, breathless, liturgically svelte. Christina, forgive me my slurs, absence is only a word away.
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