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Man with a Golf Ball Heart
par
Simon Armitage
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They set about him with a knife and fork, I heard, and spooned it out. Dunlop, dimpled, perfectly hard. It bounced on stone but not on softer ground – they made a note of that. They slit the skin – a leathery, rubbery, eyelid thing – and further in, three miles of gut or string, elastic. Inside that, a pouch or sac of pearl-white balm or gloss, like Copydex. It weighed in at the low end of the litmus test but wouldn’t burn, and tasted bitter, bad, resin perhaps from a tree or plant. And it gave off gas that caused them all to weep whеn they inspected it. That hеart had been an apple once, they reckoned. Green. They had a scheme to plant an apple there again beginning with a pip, but he rejected it.
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