Microvalve, a Sort of Ode
The music of the heart, amplified, makes sense;
a song I knew somewhere to be true but had never
sung aloud.
Today I saw inside it, and heard.
Made of fleshy chambers it is round, robust as a gourd,
a beautiful thing. Shadows and folds mostly,
it sports some pixilated bursts of light
to stand for blood.
Then, the sound magnified, its echo fills the dark room.
The left valve becomes a whistle above a thick, muddy rumble,
the aorta crisp, swooping to a tick.
The microvalve does a soft-footed dance,
and closes with an extra bounce.
Abstruse cadence, tempo, pulse, throb, swing.
In its cavern it takes life from the liver and lungs
in a free fall through so many delicate strands
and with each player, churns out the flowering
bursts of its rhythm.
That extra bounce. What does it mean?
Does it say something about my temperament?
Is it brought on by overindulgence in fluttering,
worrying, or chocolate? Is it the cartwheels?
The kind-eyed, wand-wielding technician assures me
It has more to do with my inherited height.
This body is absurd business,
random and miraculous.
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