Let’s hear it for spleen, for how it survives
nine times ninety seven lives, rutting in
all that’s stubborn—the gene pool, elephant’s
ass, dirt’s secret deal with a fossil,
the fat boy whose bat it is. Spleen, ever
moving, nursed on the tits of a troll under
a bridge, reared in heat smashed to infinite
paw prints, the cougar pacing its cage. Here’s
to the full stadium, the beer jockey
selling spleen, making his way down the rows,
remembering his deadbeat dad. There’s
a girl in the ladies’, third stall from right,
spelling out spleen with her own blood, tracing
the graffiti couplings of others. And as

for my spleen I say it’s pure of heart.
I’ve let it grow all alone, a potted
plant in the dark, eating dust, old dish suds,
coffee grinds, cracked-at-the-half egg shells.
With river’s mud I’ve tucked each and every
leaf into my body’s first idea. What
else could pump me this wild with fury
and focus, this morning’s vision of the one
who tried to steal my car keys, honor, candle, soul.
My enemy’s been sighted, he’s huffing
and puffing, he’s riding a pricey tricycle
through traffic. Spleen says what’s mine is yours
and his. Together we drive all night, break
into his house to shave all our secret
spots with his new razors so he’ll never
know why his day is that much
duller. Memory’s long for me and my spleen.
So give us back whole histories boxed
in the basement, jars of pennies, glass eyes,
plastic pearls, all the kid’s leftover life-glut,
we can’t waste a thing. Once I heard someone
say a body doesn’t need a spleen. O
sanguine us not, dear rage, blessed bile, but
keep us long in the pain put there to make
us move—dear Spleen, keep us steady,
keel us past the reasons.