They slip it into your pocket and send you out to feed
the meter. You’re not supposed to touch the organ but
it feels exactly as you imagined, except warmer.
You keep expecting it to beat but then you laugh because:
it’s not a heart! You deserve iced coffee, stand in line
thinking people will judge you for your plastic straw. But
you cup your liver like a scrotum and that makes you
feel better. Years ago, freshman biology, you learned
about bile. Toxins. Lobes. You imagined a liver swooshing
away like a dishwasher in your left ass cheek. Until
a few years ago, you pictured Europe east of the northern
tip of Maine. But look how you’ve grown into this
fondling recipient. Into this born again. There is time
to learn geography. To love your son without bitterness.
A liver doesn’t smell like hamburger or blood. It smells
like a clean tongue. It is leaving a stain on your trousers.
Trousers. You like that word. Those old and disused
syllables for which there is, sadly, no real replacement.