Poem: My Practice

I wrote this poem after a workshop we did on heart sounds -- a workshop where various people with real heart murmurs came in so we could listen to their chests.  After a bit of frustration, I was horrified to realize I had my stethoscope in wrong and therefore couldn't hear a thing - asystole! On my way home I got a flat tire and had some time to linger on the experience while I waited for AAA to show up. Hearts. These fist-sized muscles in our chests...that keep beating and beating, sometimes even when we do really horrid things to them (like cheeseburgers, and alcohol, and lazing around on the couch all day). And it made me think of the "safeties" I have right now. For one, a good, strong heart. And the classmates who will tell me my stethoscope is in wrong. Even these phenomenal workshop attendees - patients with various heart murmurs, who want me to hear them, who know this small act may help someone else down the line. And my folks, who teach me all the time about the things I sometimes take for granted. There are many people looking out for me right now. And I hope that translates into me being better at looking out for my patients...
**

That morning

I never heard

the familiar creaks in the floorboards,

the echo of the neighbor

in the hall, rushing away, the quiet

birds building to a colored roar,

only the buzz

of all of my bones,

against the perfect place

of the rain.

That day

I listened

to twenty beating hearts, each

full and impossible, lungs

inflating on last night’s dream, the quick

reflexive swallow

of responsibility. I heard

the distant knock

of depression, letting itself sneakily in,

denial circling in a storm out the

backyard window, the tinkling

of regret threatening

to tear the shingles

from the roof.

That evening

a birth, followed by a

death, both sounding the same,

until all the wailing.

That night

release, listening

to the moon rise

through a cavern of dark,

imagining one thousand whispered

“good nights” along the highways, the

hallways, remembering

the beating hearts

ka kum ka kum, the lungs

filling and filling

on hope, my own quiet rocking

in my parents arms. Like nothing

I have ever heard, like nothing

I ever will.