I know nothing
of a human heart.

Mine’s not that, of course;
it’s an entire animal instead — 
leaping inside, eating freely,
tearing at me for purchase. 

What kind of animal, you ask —
reptile, mammal, something
fantastical?

No fixed label —
call it Angel Dog, call it
Devil Cat, call it Alien
Intruder At Home Now.
Call it, if you must, Unicorn Snake.

Whatever we choose to call it,
it’s a badass.  It makes a hole,
fills it with meat, sleeps in it
fitfully, comes out mostly
spoiling for war; when in love
it’s far worse — in truth
it’s colder, calmer when it hates. 

Do you see this tale
of the Unicorn Snake as a
metaphor, smart guy?  No
way — I’m a zoo, a terrarium
of great size with a big creature
inside and not one ounce of training
has ever stuck. I don’t bother labeling
what cannot be described or held. 

Alas for the drugs
you will not eat, alas
for your dark appetites
that will not be fed —

alas for a modern need
to use an archaic word
for this slight grief, for this raw fact:
we’ve come up with no better word

to lament a passage
so anticipated as yours.
Alas was the key word of your life,
what we said whenever we saw you;

alas, alas that we still have to call it out,
put breath to the ancient word that openly grieves
and regrets at once the simple fact
that you have existed and now are gone.