When he’s gone in a transport of pounding,
my heart leaves the duties of his station
to a substitute entity. He’s found
several who can sustain circulation
for a dozen pulses, or there around—
the entire blood vessel network, for one.
The heart’s in good hands as they coax the blood
and soul en masse onward while he’s undone.
Drums also stand in for my heart, their thud
stoking and choking my fire with low sound.
And sometimes an unpredictable flood
drives my heart to grab a far-flung back up:
an ear of corn, in husk; The Iliad;
the thought of quartz; a chipped, China teacup;
or an overripe fuyu persimmon.
Nearly anything can work as a pump
when my heart takes it and screams “Whassssup?!”