Wooden Hearts By Lauren Kramer

I love the smell of fresh cut wood. Did you know that? I bet you didn’t know. Why would you? You never asked. Wooden hearts dangling over a baby’s bassinet. Be not hard like my wooden heart, chipped as a cedar output. Wood is an insulator right? Keeping it in like the charge of some electrical outlet cover. Innocuous scriptures. A vamp, that shouldn’t have, should have known better. You should have asked me all my favorites. I love the smell of wood, for wooden hearts cannot be broken. Merely splintered and sawed of one’s own, free disposition and handiwork. Let’s carve another organ. One that can’t do anything but be whole. Lucky wood. Poetry is jagged and true, an inconspicuous fopa. That’s not it. I want to write a poem that is capturing. One in which I can dice the words as may entice if not displease. Here goes…