Dave Bonta's "Sacrificial" begins by knocking romance off its pedestal. "If love is an accident," the speaker says, it is no longer fate or reward but a collision, something that happened to him. The conclusion he draws is surprising: "I should be kind to this / rogue October heart." Instead of blaming the heart for the mess, he decides to treat it gently, as one might treat a stray animal or a troublesome relative. The poem's central idea is that desire, even when it is inconvenient, a little shameful, or badly timed, deserves tenderness, and that the speaker can enjoy it rather than suppress it.
The two adjectives in that phrase carry a lot. "Rogue" suggests something that has slipped its leash, but it also has a roguish charm, like a lovable scoundrel. "October" places the heart late in the year, past summer, and judging by the imagery this hints at a love arriving in later life. The word is also an unexpected sound, with its rounded "o" echoing "rogue," so the three words "rogue October heart" almost chime as a unit.
The second stanza is where the poem turns playful, and where its title starts to matter. "Take it out for dinner" is an ordinary, almost comic domestic idea, a date with one's own heart. But "take it out" can also mean to remove, and a heart taken out and served "all good and hot" begins to look like an offering on an altar, which is what "sacrificial" promises. The dinner may be a treat for the heart, or the heart may be the meal. The poem never decides. "Like a devil" deepens the ambiguity, since it could describe the heart, the speaker, or the food. It also puns on "deviled," as in a spicy dish, so the devil is both a temptation and a seasoning. Kindness and sacrifice sit side by side, and the poem suggests they may be the same act.
The final stanza brings in the idea of sin, but without guilt. The speaker is "pleased to have / my private sin sing / another piece of my song." The line break after "have" leaves the speaker's pleasure hanging for a moment before we learn what he is pleased about. The phrase "sin sing" is the poem's most audible moment, with its near-identical sounds, and the vowel shifts again in "song." Sin, sing and song are almost one word stretched three ways, which implies that the forbidden thing and the creative thing are the same. The "private sin" is not hidden away or punished. It is given a voice, and that voice becomes part of the speaker's larger song, perhaps the poem itself. "Another piece" suggests this is not the first time, and that a life's work is assembled from such small confessions.
Structurally, the poem is three tercets in free verse, with no rhyme and no punctuation. The lines are short, mostly a handful of syllables each, so the poem reads quickly, like a murmured aside. The lack of full stops lets the thought run on from the opening "if" through to the closing "song," as if the speaker's logic were unfolding as he speaks, one clause tumbling after another. Because there are no commas, the grammar can wobble in useful ways. "Take it out for dinner" works as a resolution and as a new beginning, and "like a devil" can attach to more than one thing. The sound patterns do the work that rhyme usually does, mainly the "o" sounds in "rogue," "October" and "song," and the hiss and hum of "sin sing."
What makes the poem worth reading is its tone. It manages to be wry, tender and slightly wicked in just fifty or so words, and it avoids both sentimentality and self-punishment. The speaker does not defend his heart as noble or condemn it as reckless. He feeds it, accepts it, and lets it sing. In a few lines, the poem makes a case that being kind to our own unruly feelings may be the most honest response to them.