Now, where are the words? My heart needs
A moment to sort through its four chambers
To mix blood for my body to keep moving,
If not forward, motion is better than none.
From chamber to chamber I look soft
Walls, nails dangle, trim ready to fall,
Ceiling cracked, windows frosted with dust.
I find these images attract hope.
Like the frail old man who hobbles around
Believing he will golf once again, someday.
Will he? We doubt. He doesn’t. That matters.
And the chambers still pulse, hear them hum.
A voice from outside tells me
I am not alone, but inside something bigger.
A tap on the window tells me
“Come out and play, you are not alone.”
I collect buckets of blood from each chamber
Like an Aztec, I bleed it out, sacrificing
What little remained in the soft vessel.
Hope the old man still clings to, let’s go.