Susan Rich

The way of the heart
is that it shifts—

speaks in lace,
in blood red phrases:

holocausts, amphetamines,
Arctic glaciers.

The way of the heart
is to cry out

broadcast, abhor –
Srebrenica and Katrina –

our Iraqi war –
then beat by beat

ignore, ignore, ignore.

The selfish heart –
that hypocritical tart

hides her actions
and erasures

like the infant
she forsook at birth

which one day returns –
face shorn, heart

spectral, demanding
reparations:

a pound of flesh –
extracted, salted, cured –

our failures historical
our heartlessness beyond words.

Off Highway 109, the war recedes
behind rows of splintered homes

spray-gunned in lemon and pale green.
On the high definition lounge TV

the NASDAQ reported up sharply –
people walk dogs, buy gasoline;

and I try to imagine the news anchor
far off from this off-season town

where a chain link fence separates
residents from Roosevelt Beach.

In Holland, 1942, the Nazis shot
the Dutch for swimming in the sea.

In the next red sparkling booth
a mother lays her daughter down

she changes the soiled diaper;
the waitress with tears

in her pocket takes my order
and pretends not to see.