Lawrenceville, Georgia
August 14, 2017
The surgeon said I have a raw heart,
that where he worked his high-tech
wire would heal and bear no scars.
But all he had were images,
renderings of my left atrium
processed by silicon circuits,
color coded for conductivity,
rogue circuits splotched red
across my pulmonary veins.
They fairly danced with life,
made my heart skip stutter-
step beats. That was before.
Now the big veins stand inert,
gun-metal gray, dull as lead
pipes, bare limbs of an ancient
oak shattered by a blue bolt,
frozen and fossilized — this
the price for too much life.
I walk through new life
with a hole in my heart.
I bear invisible tattoos.
Can a body hit sixty-eight
without a rough mark
clawed across the vitals?
Could a soul survive so long
in the land of incarnation
without the grace of scars?
Technology is miracle. Hospitals
crawl with angels. Doctors patch
bodies for a few more rounds.
But raw hearts ride currents
no machine can measure. Sinking,
I am buoyed by a thousand ‘thoughts
and prayers.’ Flailing, I am borne
again to source or abyss. Surely
I will drown in a sea of grace.
