The room is hot. The window
is honest, cold like the leads clipped
to my shoulders and ankles. The wires
splay in a gray corona, marking where this heart
is buried.
Relax, says the nurse. She is darker, prettier
than her older sister. She flips a switch,
lays a flat hand on my chest.
It's fine, says the doctor, a few minutes later.
Fast -- so fast -- but fine.
photograph by Bobby Acree
