Tuesday, January 02, 2007

From the print journal archives


The probe glides cold against my chest and my heart is a gold light on a liquid crystal display.

The mitral valve flutters like a dried leaf in a November wind in the flow of my uprushing blood.

This desperate throbbing began decades ago, and never stops until some time that I cannot imagine.

The gold light plays across the nurse's face in the darkened room as my heart squeezes in its perpetual sequence: in, down, up, and out. The mind is nothing, a fortuitous byproduct. This vigorous rhythm -- that is our foundation. It is amazing, frightening, and incredible how these inner, involuntary workings continue to function, second to second, day to day, through the night, and year to year.

[not my heart]

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