And The Beat Goes OnPattie Palmer-Baker Fall 2010 - Volume 14 Number 3 Autumn licks the maple’s outer Branches where green heaves With desire for the sunlight smashing Stained-glass windows with red; That long-wave extreme of the spectrum a heart pumps,
Red wave after wave. But my heart flutters Like a weak fist clinching, opening As wide as a cracked door. Blood backs up, thickening Into a sticky red-black pool where tiny fists might float. The doctor’s fear: one will break loose and hurtle To my brain, punch a black hole that sucks words, moons, worlds.
Only a little dangerous, although. Not like atrial fibrillation, a serial-killer; pumps Wild, erratic, erotic. I would die for that beat. But this heart flutter beats weakly, organizes Into a saw-toothed pattern; perfect for me, a woman Clutching her heart for fear of.
I accede to the doctor’s order: an anticoagulant to thin Syrupy black-cherry blood until watery red races In my veins, pumping up Centers in the purple flowers my skin blooms.
A medical warning; my new blood, High on thinners, might amass Red until it ‘bleeds out.’ But why should I care? I am seasoned In autumn. Color-drunk, I welcome death for a dripping slice of life.
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