It's a matter of the heart, the doctor says, and he can fix it with catheter ablation. "It works miracles," he says, "in certain matters of the heart."
He's been a cardiologist for years. "Take my word for it," he says. "You'll be sedated. Won't feel a thing."
No excavation in my chest, either. Instead, he'll make little holes in my groin and snake tiny wires to the surface of my heart and kill the current that makes
my heart race like a hare at times and mope like a turtle other times. He's never lost a patient. "You'll be fine," he says. "Trust me."
Nine out of 10 ablations work. I'll save hundreds a month, he says, on medications. No more Multaq. No more Cardizem. And I'll never have to wear a heart monitor again.
"Shall we give it a try?" he asks. "I've got an opening two weeks from Monday. It's an outpatient procedure. You'll go home the same day, rest for a week and then resume your usual activities, even bowling. Do you like bowling? My nurses do. I prefer woodcarving."
"Okay, Doc," I tell him. "I'll give it a try, but tell me, where were you 40 years ago when the kids were small and I was young, like a bull, and a different matter of the heart dropped me like a bullet. Are you sure my heart's still ticking? Where's your stethoscope? I haven't felt a thing in years."
Donal Mahoney email@example.com Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, USA and has had poems published Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa.
in all earnest honesty, the blackbird flitters over my roof it has built nests on the outskirts of my chimney, bathing in plumes of silken ash and clouds that long to taste the earth; it mocks me with glinting eyes
with vast wings and hollow lungs, the blackberd perches on cacti, oblivious of the sting of the pricks, the scorn of the thorns in the presence of a storm, it defies all social norm and rests its weary head on the lush bed of the purple-blooded
I stuck my arm out the window, vulnerable and defenseless in hardly any second, I felt its harsh claws plunge into my paltry skin I remained a statue, a human scarecrow for the next five days.
Ancient Heart Magazine is here again! Now based in Sydney, Australia. After a number of years of publication I decided a while ago to give it a miss. But, poetry being poetry, I couldn't keep away and now here we are again; all new and bright and fresh. In a slightly different format, namely that of the blog.
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