The heart
On August 19, 1996 I realize
the idea that love
is physically located in the heart,
that pumping thing
inside your chest,
is not as arbitrary as I thought,
a convenient symbol for valentines and poems,
that it could not be placed somewhere else--
the left ear or right foot for example,
or the hands--though they might come in second,
their need to touch coming from a place
we do not control.
I had seen you again, a few weeks before my thirtieth
birthday
and again dragged myself over the same ground:
Could it work? And again the conclusion, probably not,
over and over, like the woman
who sits outside the Boston Public Library
and runs her fingers along the hem
of her skirt, all day long
each nubble, each tear.
People pass by and look away
believing what she seeks
is not there.
I know where it is.
At the BU track I run six laps.
A boy starts to cry as I start out
in a language I don't know
or none at all
a wail that comes from his chest and
does not end.
A mile and a half later he still cries out steadily
not giving up.
The wail gets inside me
but I do not stop.
I am here to say you are wrong--
with your stethoscopes, your psychologists.
It is my heart alone that pumps the blood,
pushes me forward
around and around this red, dusty circle.
Boston City Hall Prose and Poetry contest winner 2013
