Single Track. by Linda Stevenson

I walk through my own heart

only heart on the block,

wavering, unsteady, but there’s

the single track homeless, home.

I feel she needs to be still

soon, travesties from dead acts

stricken her, every now then

she buckles like a bronchial challenge,

a chest crying for bedrest.

Arms, yes they too press on me,

as I might have preferred a ladybug’s

wings. Afternoons I wait on

soundings, heart bleeding out

light, a drained shotglass.

 Linda Stevenson is a poet/painter living in Melbourne, Australia. Her recent poems have appeared in Eureka Street, Bluepepper, North of Oxford, the Outlaw Poetry Network and many other journals and anthologies.