Meteor-Lite

Photo by Alex Iby on Unsplash

Skinless
and white, I do not
diagnose conditions
yet feel every word
hear each bite

I am not from here
yet came to test the
temperature of
the average
human being

By the side
of the road
I sit, carding
before knitting the
broken hearts
of men and women

I was thrashed
clean in the church
of believers
long before you came

I am the Atticus Finch
of dreams,
down in the cellar
and on my knees

When your tongue is
ripped out at dawn,
as it surely will be,
I will lay out the map
and handle your shame

My gift will come and
go again, a tinder to ignite
your being, this jewel
I carry, a meteor to come
round once
every thousand years

COPYRIGHT Simon Heathcote

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