This Old Heart of Mine

by Jill Jones.

Don’t scrounge, my heart, leave the pickings
for the birds, there’s always a magpie or
honeyeater who can use it better than you.
Just keep beating, flapping your valves
you old scar, make it seem effortless
like swallowing or taking or leaving
the minutiae or the passions, you don’t need
to smile but you also don’t need a gun or a plan
just your hands though they work badly.
Even the birds let things slip, cats drop
their prey, leave it for the ground, you’ve done
enough to the ground, simply walk
as though you are walking away.
What kind of reveries do you think you deserve?


This poem was previously published in Viva the Real (UQP 2018)