Whoever they were, they had grace
Enough to foil my tripwire
And other booby-traps I'd rigged.

So I slept on unwarned
As they reached my bed
And set out their tools on the floor.

A rockhammer to make peanut brittle of my ribcage.
The kitchen scissors were for severing the aorta and major veins.
The rusty trowel, by the looks of it
Was used for scooping out viscera.
The tazer might have been to knock me out
If they found me awake, or may have been
Lying around here for weeks
(either way I'm keeping it).
The shirt of mine you sleep in when you stay
Was packed into the wound
And they hadn’t sterilized
Anything.

Were they angels or ghosts,
Your little errand-runners?
Silent ninjas? Buddhist ascetic monks perhaps,
With superhuman and ruthless control?
Or ballerinas?

I know I had a heart a day or two ago;
A meat and nerve and gristle heart,
Made from me and at my centre.
Your people took that out.
It’s probably in some alley somewhere
Feeding cats.