Cardiology

When we first met, my heart pounded. They said

the shock of it was probably what broke

his heart. In search of peace, we traveled once

to Finland, tasted reindeer heart. It seemed

so heartless, how you wanted it to end.

I noticed on the nurse who took his pulse

a heart tattooed above her collarbone.

The kids played hearts all night to pass the time.

You said that at its heart rejection was

impossible to understand. “We send

our heartfelt sympathy,” was written in

the card your mother sent, in flowing script.

I tried interpreting his EKG,

which looked like knife wounds to the heart. I knew

enough to guess he wouldn’t last much longer.

As if we’d learned our lines by heart, you said,

“I can’t explain.” “Please don’t,” was my reply.

They say the heart is just a muscle. Or

the heart is where the human soul resides.

I saw myself in you; you looked so much

like him. You didn’t have the heart to say

you didn’t want me anymore. I still

can see that plastic statue: Jesus Christ,

his sacred heart aflame, held out in his

own hands. He finally let go. How grief

this great is borne, not felt. Borne in the heart.

Rafael Campo