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I will write something down.

The brother by the wall watches me
seeking your voice through the bubbles,
searching diligently for the gall you see.
Slick shine is enough to break his prayer
and create mine. He tells me sharply,
“Hearts beat out of habit,
and a reminder is never enough.”

Monks have all the luck.
It is easy to live as poised and rehearsed,
scrubbing old soap rings
from the path-worn tiles.
You hold my eyes high,
so I will see those carapace winks
cajole and coerce
whoever will follow.

I am no brother,
as I make rainbows just for the sake
of coaxing iridescence from a hoop.
Existence streams from my breath
and I follow,
leaving a trail of bubble scum
as silent as the brother scrubbing.

I am no murmur,
no suspicious echo
or cancer arrhythm.
A flash the color of you –
emission the color of life and light
and no explanation will do
to push soap into flight.
But winks never vanished more quickly –
just a drop of bubble waste
that runs down the monk’s shaved head.

Bubbles thicken his gaze.
The hymn of the monks beats in the sun,
shrinking the world to this pulse,
pressing ancient words into my skin.
Dead soap mingles with the brother’s sweat
as the still shuddering thuds
from beat to breath. You tell me,
“Hearts beat out of habit,
and I am always surprised.”

And each contraction
leads to another

Knees to the tiles.
New blood demands

I will write something down.

4/23/2009, slightly edited on 8/26/2010 – sister poem to Pulse

One comment on “Arrhythm

  1. […] – edited on 8/25/2010 Sister poem to Arrhythm […]

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