Untitled #161
by Eric Evans
They found a dinosaur heart
in South Dakota once, perfectly
preserved, still held in the
protective curves of its ribcage.
I don’t know much about hearts
outside of words like aorta
and by-pass, chambers and
ventricles. I know that some
men have plastic hearts, some
have baboon hearts, and some
rare men barely have hearts
at all. But I think that I
know my own heart and hope
that when they crack the sternum
to unearth it, the black spots
of hatred and weakness are
small and few, hope the
whoosh of air that escapes
sounds not unlike her name,
hope there is still an errant
pulse or two to beat out in
some odd jazz time, hope that
when its weighed on that clinical
scale, its measured by more than
just ounces and pounds.
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