It is a young man’s heart the knife of stone
Puts in the Aztec’s hand; heart he will raise,
Still beating, toward the god who, like the priest,
Is blood-besmeared already, as a god
Both Death and Fear. His priesthood’s fear is, flint
Upon an old man’s heart is stone on stone;
Might strike a spark that would ignite the world
If there were breath enough to stir the lint,
So much a fossil fuel envy is.
Young hearts an altar never lacks. Its lure’s
The name of Chosen: ease and sex and glut,
Our tempting pyramid. If at the top
A dagger waits, hearts calcify below
One beat, one granule at a time toward age,
Until a sacrifice seems self-reflexive:
Hardened sternum and the stony twist,
Intransigence upon intransigence.
Why Geriatrics Are Not Sacrificed
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