the first heart transplant
is performed in cape town
and a flower child chokes
in a river to the sound
of nobody listening,

her mouth that was
force fed with the gravity
of tide and grade school
history textbooks and
cross-hatched maps
of Dresden and Armenia
and the other places we will
forget to name later
leading to the same
unfurnished hearth

it’s been traced for her
since she was made
to trace the love affair
of pilgrims and indians
into construction paper

and the oceanic evil that sank
her eyelids before she was
gone, before she lost
everything but

her eyelids that will live
on a polished mantel
and grandly line
the entrance way
as men in tuxedo shirts
smug at the fear of the world

and hear nothing.