Explaining my Depression to my Mother

Sabrina Benaim

In Certain Matters of the Heart

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
donalmahoney@charter.net
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. 

Blessed Blackbird

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.

Patricia P.

Manila, Philippines

pennilesspoetry@gmail.com