Merchants buy and sell my heart
like a slab of heady cheese.
They slice it into ever tinier bits.
With their bulbous lips
they praise the cows and sweet grass
that have produced the milk.

I cannot join them in their chorus.
I see nothing in the animals
or their pasture that is mine to keep.

Cheese molders on the wheel.
My heart will not permanently heal
from the knife blade.

I am weary from carrying the weight
of the world like an unkempt confidant.
It rides up and down my back,
turning my spine into an eternal question mark.

Why have I yielded to the world’s grimy gossip?
Why have I so carelessly given my heart away
for 30 pieces of silver?
Why have I squandered my power to resist?

No answer descends from the sky,
Just the brusque busyness and noise
of endless worldliness.
The clamor is too much with me.

The merchants slice and slice again.
I have waited too late for redemption.

In the morning, I must eat my heart out.