Our heart’s been removed, still beating,
to check for signs of overconsumption. Look
at the delicate strain of the knotted muscle

blurring, unblurring, blurring again as it leaks
on the table. It’s Thanksgiving and there’s nothing
set, just a silence begging to be broken and the cafeteria

slop (its better this time) steaming on its tray. Silently,
speckled images float through our memory, fighting
against the glossy black ocean, matchless

in depth. They bobble to the surface, taking
on fluid. You know, an MRI works
by aligning the atoms. By calling feeble matter

to attention, then letting go. Her lungs
can only reveal what they mean after
release. Now, we wait for the body to speak

to us in waves—prognostic words
we can only hope
have a meaning. How

we rob ourselves
of each other. How we rob
ourselves of ourselves.