Anatomy books and cannibals will tell you the heart is one tough piece of meat,
But everyone here knows despite its’ fibreous tissue,
It is not really made of such stern stuff:
It is mosaic cobbling of glasswork held over heat and harboring the cracks of every other inferno it has hovered over before;
It is ceramic suggestion of a plaster cast, a resemblance of what that ticker looked like last;
It is veins and ventricles sketched in charcoal and left in the rain.
And Someone Deemed to put so fragile a thing high up,
Top shelf, so that when it tumbles how far a way down it has to go,
Put a head above it that the brain may watch out for its wear and tear,
But we all know which organ speaks louder,
How a pulse can quiet firing neurons,
We have all had messianic mydocardial infarctions that lead us into the wilderness and abandoned us.
And we wander back, found our own paths back to civilization,
Made our own societies out of heartache and super glue,
We made pyramids of arteries and our aortas,
A testament to our timelessness, our self-worth,
And our toughness.
We mutated ourselves into the solid mass of one beating heart,
Turned fingernails and hair, eyeballs and our epidermises into the same stern stuff residing in our ribcages,
We made ourselves Adams and Eves undivided,
Self-sufficient, in an Image, and a prize.