I saw my heart today, beating, beating
like a bellows, an abattoir river
of blood, thick as a quagmire dredging
through the chambers making room for itself.
The technician captures the clamour on screen;
like an old clavichord player pulling the strings,
she has been to the heart of the matter.
The last time I had a sonar graph
there inside me in a small nimbus of light
was a star baby, with ten star fingers.
This time the scan reads more like storm clouds
gathering at the death of day, dark and bloody.
If you've any comment on this poem, Jean O'Brien would be pleased to hear from you.