INSIDES
Mario Petrucci

Hurried past, straining for a glimpse
of smoothed counterpanes, secret
arrangements of furniture. Grandma
hacked hens in the yard, threw back
gizzards for the rest to squabble over,
beaks wobbling with blood, eyes glazed,
mid-July pulling its white haze
over everything - so that I snuck
up the marble corridor, right up
to the crack, to look, to see a strip
of him as never seen: wet with himself
the untanned tide-mark across his upper arms
his belly wobbling white, in and out
of view, glint of hens in his eye
so that even now heart races at the thought
of their musty privacy pierced, oozing past
the jamb where I stand now
wading in the ancient cool that spills
across marble, their bed
empty; but Christ's eyes still following
from the wall, pointing to the heart
the raw pecked open heart.