The nurse adjusts the cuff and takes another reading.
The sounds blood makes, coming and going from the heart;
the ache and excess of its griefs, its hidden murmurs,
its blubs pressed against the soft corridors of the heart.
The body's such a flimsy envelope. Turning in bed, I hold my side
and feel the other organs tumble slightly around the heart.
Imagine fish in a bowl of strange dimensions, angling toward
an invisible skylight, ribbons of liquid encircling the heart.
On newborns' heads, the fontanel or soft spot—in quiet light,
sometimes you can see the holy pulsing there, from the heart.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
