I do not know how
the heart works
although
it talks to me all of my life.
It
thuds in my ears like thunder storms, beating
these claps
one—two—three
inches close.
It
is forever restless as I sleep and as I read how heart is,
heart
is like machine—absolute organ composed of intricate parts.
Heart
is solely inter-working instrument—yet I feel deep down,
it
is more than valves, ventricles, vessels, and veins;
Can
heart be more than mechanism pushing blood through chambers?
I learn how the
heart works, but I am not told
how the heart understands. Heart is pump and muscle,
but
it is not brain.
Out of sheer adrenaline,
I attempt to distinguish heart’s proper classification:
Heart
is not distorted half circles meeting at two points
and
it is not undying love and not heart-wrenching emotion but
it is upside-down pear, aorta and
atria and pulmonary artery.
Heart is not
allegiance to red lines and white shapes.
Heart-less is no offense
since all have pulse and live
and
all hearts strike and strike
and
strike and I discover how the heart works
but
I feel that this force, these punches, secretly
know
more than me; more than definition and device seek.
It is said: follow heart’s desire. I wish to chase
this yearning each burning day—
return
to the place in this heart which floods not only with blood,
but
with solidity, warm feeling which text book does not describe.
When
explanation enlightens that a lifetime
is more than two and a half billion
bangs,
I see that Science
blends so cleverly with Philosophy.
Hearts are not broken, boys and
girls,
who cry blood tears.
Heart is not paper
Valentine, not balloon
which
pops and never pops again. Hearts are not floating
in
air with holes, deflating, although sometimes
I
feel heart sink—heavy like rock, but the books
do
not say why heart is deep in sensation in my chest
when I
tell it, stop. Heart has mind of its own like child,
to
whom I explain: these heart facts are more like fine lines.
I
sense this truth in the pit of pounding organ and I pray—
I pray that this heart-sense
is no nonsense; that it is more than picture
and name. I swear—
I
swear heart is like person.
Heart is
wholeheartedly aware.
I
feel heart sigh—smile like faces, whispering through my veins
the
secrets of imagination and bitter actuality.
Heart
proceeds—it proceeds to drum out rhythms
every
single second of these noisy nights.
Under
a dark sky, I listen, awake and
I
hope to some time comprehend precisely, this appendage,
these
awkward beats which remind me
constantly—
I am real,
I am throbbing,
I am alive.
