Helen Mort Poems
- Ablation Inside the Northern General they're trying to burn ...
- Scale My weight is four whippets, two Chinese ...
- GEORGE, AFRAID OF FINGERPRINTS thought of them on patted ...
- AN EDITOR'S PREFACE TO THE LAN...
- THE WORD FOR SNOW The Inuit have twenty-two words for snow,...
- THE RORSCHACH TESTS He hanged himself from a lamp-post with ...
- LITTON MILL Hold me, you said, the way a glove is held by ...
Helen Mort’s first collection, Division Street (Chatto & Windus, 2013), was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize and the Costa Prize. Her second, No Map Could Show Them, is forthcoming. more »
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Inside the Northern General
they're trying to burn away
a small piece of your heart.
I want to know which bit,
and what it holds.
My questions live
between what doctors call the heart
and what we mean by it,
wide as the gap between brain and mind.
And in our lineage of bypassed hearts
we should be grateful
for the literal. I know my heart
is your heart — good for running,
not much else
and later as you sit up in your borrowed bed
I get the whole thing wrong,
call it oblation. Offering
or sacriﬁce. As if ...