I have an unhealthy attraction
to hospitals.
I come in and unbutton my shirt,
insist that something is wrong with me,
beat on the triage nurse's desk,
on the glass door to the trauma unit.
Four hours later I am informed
there are pieces missing,
whole organs, removed like batteries,
and yet my blood still moves.
The doctors wash in and out.
Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
E pur. E pur.
(And yet. And yet.)
Four days later, at my kitchen table
the phone rings.
Good news, they say. You're missing
just four chambers of your heart,
four base pairs in your DNA
(adenine, thymine, cytosine, guanine),
at most four fingers from each hand.
--Oh yes, the facts are in
and you can live without your heart.
(We have machines for that.)
