Heart with Bacon, Broth, & Kale  

gets out cleaver & chopping block 
runs his tongue across his teeth  
once tried to reshape them in- 
to ovals with a file (you can  
but for a long time it’ll hurt) 
hydrangeas look in the window & nod 
he’s wearing a ridiculous red fisherman  
hat & has wolves tattooed  
on both hands—guess he’s not done 
because he paws through the ice lumps 
for another one & finds a heart too big 
to be a chicken’s too small to be a cow’s 
quick thaw water bath & unaccustomed 
wonderment at its color 
first dice the heart cutting  
away the tough bits 
perfect pink & pulsing fillet  
makes a blood moon on the plate 
where the knife goes in. 

Burial

The aunts gather in tight clusters, 
their hats touching like beaks of birds. 

A priest clears his throat to summon 
a god who falls asleep in chairs. 

Our mourning allows a stone to sit,  
silent in the heaving cage of our ribs. 

My people are stóchúil, taut & still— 
endure the breath of flowers. 

ELLEN DEVLIN

Ellen Devlin is the author of two chapbooks, Rita (2019) and Heavenly Bodies at the MET (forthcoming, 2023). Her poems can be found in The Cortland Review, Ekphrasis, Lime Hawk Review, New Ohio Review, PANK, Poet Lore, The Lost River Review, The Sow’s Ear, Women’s Studies Quarterly Review, and other journals, most recently Muleskinner (2023) and Beyond Words (2023).