Kat Moore

How do you live with a bird for a heart?

How do you forget the face of your criminal lover   the way his voice sang near water
the way his prison letters cut cuticles in the palm inside you  
how do you love the man who lies 
calls you baby when you pull all your hair out  doesn’t leave when your face limps
& your name smears blue inside his mouth
how do you love the present when the past cracks & smiles   blowing scorched earth 
you want to catch
& still there is a third man
a man over there  waiting in the moments ahead    
pulls you two feet in front of your body  your body  
he makes you forget the broken body  with traces of sound still in his skin & his mouth 
slits a prayer & he looks at you like he hears you  like he fucked you before you even met  

& it’s too much for the heart   the heart  

Here, now, not over there, but here, now, can you feel it, in my chest, the claws rip at bone, the feathers beat against the ribs. When the heart cracks a bird crawls out.

My favorite souvenir is a glass snow globe with "hope" etched on the side.  It spins and plays music.  A friend who is no longer on this plane with us,  a friend who was porcelain and purple fire-- she  gave it to me.

Kat Moore has essays in Yemassee Journal, 5x5 Lit Mag, and Blunderbuss Magazine (included in the Best of Blunderbuss 2014). Poetry forthcoming/in Maudlin House, Negative Suck, and others. Her short story "Kissing River Phoenix" has been adapted to film by Polyphony Creative. She resides in Memphis, TN with her dilute tortie, boyfriend, and two dogs.