Men Without Heart Conditions
by Tim Donahue
Men without heart conditions will
wander strange walking goofyfooted walks
gay and crouched and brothered and straight reporting live from
that crevice in your pocket
or fallen loose into
the lining of your pants.
Men without heart conditions call themselves
fool for love, mother of dragons, waistband boy loving loose with the lint
writing paralysis poems about being where your feet are, about Kipling,
who’s dead. Ginsburg,
who’s dead. His friend Henry, from across the street, who nobody remembers,
who was quiet,
who sang plastic Jesus in the shower, who’s dead.
Men without heart conditions mourn
the mark on his skin, the shave he had torn close and sharp in his head
Who made him born bleeding blood where the nails had been? Who made him,
by the river, they’re hidden
burn crosses and prophets
Old woman, look down
he’s walkrushing in silence and the wind is consistent and we are on fire curling
into each other
picking wrinkles and breathing deeply to the tune of a folk song because it is all
he can do
Men without heart conditions were
all once momma’s favorite birthday boy
a couple dozen siblings, a couple dozen parents cycling in as the old ones spun
out
momma’s favorite birthday boy he ate alive the cattle
dipped the river geese in gas and he threw it lighted into the drypines.
wander strange walking goofyfooted walks
gay and crouched and brothered and straight reporting live from
that crevice in your pocket
or fallen loose into
the lining of your pants.
Men without heart conditions call themselves
fool for love, mother of dragons, waistband boy loving loose with the lint
writing paralysis poems about being where your feet are, about Kipling,
who’s dead. Ginsburg,
who’s dead. His friend Henry, from across the street, who nobody remembers,
who was quiet,
who sang plastic Jesus in the shower, who’s dead.
Men without heart conditions mourn
the mark on his skin, the shave he had torn close and sharp in his head
Who made him born bleeding blood where the nails had been? Who made him,
by the river, they’re hidden
burn crosses and prophets
Old woman, look down
he’s walkrushing in silence and the wind is consistent and we are on fire curling
into each other
picking wrinkles and breathing deeply to the tune of a folk song because it is all
he can do
Men without heart conditions were
all once momma’s favorite birthday boy
a couple dozen siblings, a couple dozen parents cycling in as the old ones spun
out
momma’s favorite birthday boy he ate alive the cattle
dipped the river geese in gas and he threw it lighted into the drypines.
Tim Donahue
Tim Donahue is a fiction writer and poet from Kenmore, Washington. His work has appeared in Washington Square Review, Outcrop Poetry, 45th Parallel Literary Magazine, Forget-Me-Not Journal, and others.