No Heart by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Animals don’t have heart attacks, he said,
I don’t think they have hearts, not like we
have hearts.
Perhaps they don’t brush their teeth with sticks of butter,
I suggested.
Think about it, he said.
I don’t have to, I answered.
All those animals and not one heart attack.
They must not have hearts, that’s the only explanation.
I asked him what they had then
if they didn’t have hearts
and he said he didn’t know.
Then we continued breaking up skids
with rubber mallets.
On a slant
on the back loading dock
beside a dumpster the local gangs
had tagged as one of
their own.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a happily unmarried proud father of none. His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as Your One Phone Call, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Dead Snakes. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.

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