by Hilarie Jones

    I was twenty-six the first time I held

    a human heart in my hand.

    It was sixty-four and heavier than I expected，

    its chambers¹ slack；

    and I was stupidly surprised

    at how cold it was.

    It was the middle of the third week

    before I could look at her face，

    before I could spend more than an hour

    learning the secrets of cirrhosis，

    the dark truth of diabetes²， the black lungs

    of the Marlboro woman， the exquisite³

    painful shape of kidney stones，

    without eating an entire box of Altoids

    to smother⁴ the smell of formaldehyde.

    After seeing her face， I could not help

    but wonder if she had a favorite color；

    if she hated beets⁵，

    or loved country music before her hearing

    faded， or learned to read

    before cataracts⁶ placed her in perpetual twilight⁷.

    I wondered if her mother had once been happy

    when she'd come home from school

    or if she'd ever had a valentine from a secret admirer.

    In the weeks that followed， I would

    drive the highways， scanning billboards⁸.

    I would see her face， her eyes

    squinting⁹ away the cigarette smoke，

    or she would turn up at the bus stop

    pushing a grocery cart of empty

    beer cans and soda¹⁰ bottles. I wondered

    if that was how she'd paid for all those smokes

    or if the scars of repeated infections in her womb

    spoke¹¹ to a more universal currency.

    Did she die， I wondered， in a cardboard box

    under the Burnside Bridge， nursing a bottle

    of strawberry wine， telling herself

    she felt a little warmer now，

    or in the Good Faith Shelter，

    her few belongings¹² safe under the sheet

    held to her faltering¹³ heart？

    Or in the emergency room， lying

    on a wheeled gurney， the pitiless

    lights above， the gauzy curtains around？

    Did she ever wonder what it all was for？

    I wish I could have told her in those days

    what I've now come to know： that

    it was for this——the baring

    of her body on the stainless¹⁴ steel table——

    that I might come to know its secrets

    and， knowing them， might listen

    to the machine-shop hum of aortic¹⁵ stenosis

    in an old woman's chest， smile a little to myself

    and， in gratitude¹⁶ to her who taught me，

    put away my stethoscope， turn to my patient

    and say Let's talk about your heart.

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