comes when I get out of the subway.
When all I’ve eaten was a Luna bar.
When I’ve been sitting far too long entering mailing addresses at the office desk.
WebMD is not who I should be consulting.
The sonogram told me my limbs are too long for a heart the size
of my fist; that my heart literally closes in on itself.
It is trying to take in all of the blood before it is ready to.
My body is a clearing. My heart is the bent willow tree that allows
the breeze to pass through it.
When I was in high school I was bold.
I am still bold.
When I was in high school my heart was loud.
My heart is still loud. But it is not the strongest warrior
on the mountain.
But there is good in this—
The warrior who understands
that she can die
treads softly in the everglades—
loads a bow and arrow only with a clean shot in sight—
tastes the wine from the flask like the first air from hibernation.
My heart is a muscle. It never gets tired.
It is the size of my fist.
I have never seen it, but I know it.
Every time I feel it fluttering
I remember the mortal in me.
