Julie-Ann Rowell
Heart
She says she held a man’s heart in her hands today,
he had gunshot wounds.
I did not ask if he survived, the thought of the core
of him pumping slippery in her fingers silenced me.
Now I see her walking up the Magnificent Mile
with her canvas shoulder bag, head above the others,
thinking of coffee at central Barnes & Noble,
not the bloody cavity, the give of a living heart -
one man’s struggle to stay in a dazzling room with
concentrated faces, application of hands
while I was in my garden under the old rose bush
hardly aware of the pulse in my throat.
Page(s) 57
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