The fluffy chick is not a fluffy chick,
it is hard-wired tendon and bone
made to gape and put on weight
wear its parents down, a machine
with no memory, just instinct.
The Black Box is not a black box,
it is fluorescent pink, a colour
to be found in wreckage,
it is an approximate sphere
to resist fracture on impact,
a flight rune, a recorder
to play back upon death.
The heart is not heart-shaped,
nor pink. It is a grey maroon,
the colour of late mourning,
or a dull anatomy class. It is
a lumpy fist, knuckled with
odd pipes and orifices, made
to pump haemoglobin, a push-me
pull-you animal, made
to maintain a constant pressure.
It is a flight recorder, a rune to be read,
as unlike your first love as it’s possible to be.
It is red grey, red grey, red.