My father performs open heart surgery on me 

without any medical training. Cracks the sternum

with the busted edge of a tequila bottle. No anesthetic 

– just the promise that he's doing this out of love.

Like so many things, my heart wasn't broken 

before he got there. Now my most vital organ 

slops

through his fingers. The unskilled grasp

spills more blood than it saves,

and my body drowns. He can't believe

the mess I've made. Time for

a cigarette. My open chest, now an ashtray. He 

has no idea that he has no idea what he's doing.

My vitals crash. As the smoke circles his face, I 

reach for my own pulse, lay it in the chest 

cavity

like a newborn in a cradle. I hurry the 

thread through dry lips and then the eye

of the needle. A quick whip stitch will leave 

a crooked scar, but I must get out of here

in one piece. At the door he stops me. 

Tries to apologize, even though he has

never known how to be sorry.