Shirley McClure

I did not need to say to you,
darling, this is X,
the one who pumped my heart

with helium and cast it,
airborne to the whin,
where it lay punctured,

inhaling yellow,
no longer certain
what it was for;

and this, my love, is Y,
the same Y who inherited my X
while I was still talking funny,

boosted and high.
So much time has passed
that we all feel safe

to come out again,
our adjusted hearts
vacuum-packed against

accidental damage,
but valiant,
curious and light.