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I Think My Father
had a heart. He wore it
outside his shirt sometimes
and sometimes it slept
in his chest. Now I hear
it's failed him. Poor heart, stumped
to beat. He can't work or walk
to the mailbox. They strapped
him to a table and grabbed
one of his veins
to try to rope it—
his body said no,
no I won't be tied together
by my own twine.
I think he refused
to speak. Oh, he's a big
two-hearted man.
He always won the women
who couldn't help it—
there it was, misplaced heart,
all wet and waiting
to be touched. Except
my mother kept
pushing it back inside,
not to hide it but so
she could rock it to sleep,
hear it sing to her a word
only she could understand.
Only, she could not understand
since its speech was slurred—
it sloshed and burped at her.
Old dry heart, now it croaks
in its case and stays put.
How long it'll last
or how quickly I'll race
to its final thump
I can't say.
Maybe I'll fly there
on the first arrhythmic shout
to see if it's true:
it will leap out
of his parted gown
into my cupped hands.
It would be fine
to see it. I could forgive the mess
on the bed for such an end
because I think my father
had a heart
he wants me to have.
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