Ambidexterity

Was lava once,
this obsidian blade,
fine-honed now to perhaps
a molecule's meagre width,
sharper than surgeon's steel,
hanging here from a sacrificial hand,
dripping thick, thick ruby drops
now puddling, congealing
on the cool tile floor;

while in the other,
the offering opposite,
beating beautifully still,
in separate, coordinated halves,
Charles's excised heart-

and he,

it's borrower,

(not it's owner,
life and it being
for all intents a loaner)

observing, half unbelieving-

he no sorrower, nor groaner,

wondering whether it really works-

might this make the sun,
with love, come up,
drop delightfully down
from Night's parted thighs

before his corpse,
his lifeless eyes
are laid within his tomb?