“Heartlines”

Red whispers,

clocks tied together with old arteries.

He wasn’t using them anymore.

Tick,

goes the clip,

caught under his silver tongue.

They were familiar with his work.

Tock,

a mother’s love,

tested with bullets and rage.

They never made it.

Tick,

a way to measure loyalty

to the bush outside his window,

and to the olive tree,

with its branches,

stroking the back of her neck.

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