This morning
it feels like my heart
is knocking against my ribcage.
I mean that
in all sincerity.
Heart, in this case,
is muscle and not metaphor.
Ribcage is
a common descriptive term for the arrangement
of the ribs.
Morning is when this is happening;
these words should be seen
as carrying no figurative weight.
I mean to say just what I say:
it’s morning, and it feels like
my heart is knocking against my ribcage.
Note that I did not say, “trying to break free”
from my ribcage. That would be stupid.
The heart has no will of its own.
It doesn’t know freedom and it’s not
going to leap from my body
leaving splinters of bone
and a huge hole behind it.
That would invite metaphor again
and I’m trying to avoid it
as my breathing’s too shallow
to use so much oxygen
on creative thought right now.
Did I mention my breathing was shallow?
Don’t assume I meant something else. There’s
nothing hidden there;
my breathing is shallow, meaning I’m taking
smaller breaths than usual, higher in my chest,
more quickly. I could add that they do not
expand the ribcage as much as normal breaths.
You should get the picture
though I’m not trying to paint one:
just the facts here. I’m wincing
with the effort of staying in the moment
with the pain in my shoulder.
Yes, I’m in pain.
For a full description of it,
I’m going to have to dip a bit into
comparison.
Forgive me. It’s what we all do;
I don’t know how else to say it, so:
it’s like something’s cutting me at intervals.
Sharp pain. We call it that because it explains it
to another. We’ve all felt it. Right now,
it feels like my left shoulder’s being slashed
from clavicle to pit; a rod’s being shoved in the wound
and shoved down my left arm from the inside.
That’s accurate as a description
even if it’s not a fact. No wonder
my breathing’s so shallow. No wonder my heart
feels like it’s knocking on my ribcage.
I would feel safe
in having you assume
that these are the signs
of a heart attack, which itself is a metaphor
used to describe a myocardial infarction
or some other cardiac event. Heart attack
is a bad description: as if the heart
were capable of hostilities.
It’s not attacking me. It’s doing what it is supposed to do
in response to my not taking care
of it properly. Fatty foods, no exercise, pack a day habit.
No metaphors there, just facts, though
I suck at self care contains a metaphor
that works, even if the sentence
makes no objective sense.
This morning, then,
let’s just say that it feels like my heart
is knocking against my ribcage.
Let’s say, further, that my dumb heart
and my ribcage
and my arm are in some kind of distress
and as a result
I am too
although I don’t know
what I means, who I am
distinct from awareness
of my body. If I did,
would I be writing this
instead of calling the ambulance?
If the heart dies I’m sure I’ll find out.
No metaphor in that, either.
I suspect there will be a moment
when I will understand
the meaning of I
if keep writing instead of calling.
I won’t come back to tell you about it, though.
You will have to draw conclusions
from the poem and the pain and the heart
and the dying. You will say
that stupid bastard died
writing a poem while his heart was failing,
and you’ll be correct.
I’m sure someone
will make it into a metaphor,
though in fact it isn’t.
