No.

This piece of your heartflesh
left in an ashtray.

White porcelien ashtray
on a blue bed-side table
with scuffs on its surface.

Surgical and bloodless,
the edges; far less than a pound.
Such a slender segment.

You call this an offering?

Incised tumor
removed with intention;
discarded,
unburnt,

I am not impressed.

In a Garden of Monsters

Not born,
but for each other made.

The jagged edges cut away
to shape the space
where you now fit.

Our oddly aranged
twisted limbs
interlocking
each with each.

Frankenstein-stiched,
you and I.
Simbiotic, at times
a horror; but too,
there is this:

Two trees,
red and purple plum
grafted together.
Roots and leaves,
stock and scion,
the whip and the tongue.

Bound,
and bearing rich fruit.