Heartwork Poems: Four Poems Written While Waiting for My Mother

Four poems written while mom has heart work: 1/27/2020

A heart attack, a stent, a stent, a heart valve replacement, a heart block, a stent, a pacemaker, a heart stop and restart, a heart flutter, and scarring the inside of the heart.

A heart murmur. The reason I am vegan (and for the animals). I am not wearing a Love Your Mother sweatshirt. I am not wearing an anatomical heart necklace. All of my heart hides inside of me, none of it bared.

I have four writing prompts for poems: Time, Murmur, Why I Don't Get a Tattoo of Mary Shelley Cat, and Ways in Which I am Too American. These are now titles.

While waiting for her procedure, I ask my mom for four words for the poems. She gives me: Everlasting (her heart?), Thunderous (the sounds of her heart racing as heard through a stethoscope), Amber (her hospital socks are yellow and she thinks of Mary Shelley's eyes, which are green, as yellow), Anticipating (the inspiration for this seems obvious).

I also write down: hummingbird heart (hers flutters) and hair sparkles (mom is talking about my blond hair as a child and her favorite picture of me standing beside a stream and how my hair sparkles. I think this is how I appear to mom inside of her heart and how I will appear to her in the afterlife.) In my own heart, I appear much darker.

12:10p I kiss mom and they wheel her away. While mom begins her heart procedure, I bring baskets of fruit and nuts (heart healthy instead of the usual baked goods) for the ICU staff and cardiovascular staff as mom directed. It was on her mind Sunday. Her gratitude is heartfelt. 

The cardiologist who does electrical work on hearts (including my mom's) does not eat disruptive foods (like garlic or onions) before the procedure. He remains calm inside and out. His work is heartfast. 

I am eating Wholesome organic cinnamon bears. The "o" in wholesome is a heart. It does not take much work to work a heart into everything. 

The surgical center waiting room is packed. 

I overhear: "I love this hospital. Thank you." 

I wonder: How many times am I going to check the monitor today? To see whether my mom remains in surgery (green) or has gone to recovery (blue). 

Oops, I have already eaten all of the cinnamon bears. 

12:45p I begin... 

MURMUR 

In the forest
Where the creek winds and trickles,
Where evergreens brush and sway,
Where wind shudders and whispers,
Where hooves pat and fall,
Where insects flutter and skitter,
Where crows lift and hawks glide — in anticipating silence.

The mother
Who says hush, shush, shh,
Who sings and hums ooh child, ooh,
Who listens to cries and whines,
Who weeps, pats, and wipes,
 Who stirs, scoops, and pours,
Who asks: "Do you have a murmur?"

The monster 
What calls and flits in the night,
What lurks below underbrush,
What scurries in shadows,
What nibbles and bites,
What scratches and shifts,
What if it crooned: "Yes, a murmur?"

I am happy 
When feathers fall, fall,
When fur ruffles and fluffs,
When beings gather and murmur,
When pages fall open, leaf, and turn,
When birds coo, purr, and sigh,
When the keys tap and click — in thunderous silence.

I invite trouble 
Why do we crinkle and shake?
Why do the men mutter?
Why would I push and rush?
Why would a heart murmur?
Why did the body plop and fall?
Why did her eggs ooze and freeze? — in amber silence.

The Knight of Pentacles 
How I shuffle and draw,
How I soothe and rock,
How I shrink and cry,
How I scribble and write,
How I speak and whisper,
How do I sneak and breathe — in everlasting silence?

2:08p The minimum time the cardiologist said this could take has passed. I have checked the board twice. I have used the bathroom twice. I went downstairs once in search of hand lotion. The gift shop did not have any. I regret I did not take mine with me. Now I have to type with dry hands. 

2:17p I have now convinced myself everything is fine. And so much worry seems silly. I know that if too much time passes I will begin to worry again.

TIME 

In which she wants and values time,
More than awards or relationships.

Worthless time, becomes her muddy fears,
Time, too futuristic. Too anticipatory, time.

Nebulous time ages her amber.
Her strong egg-shaped heart crackles.

Everlasting time, becomes her soft and soothing voice,
Smoothing the edges of fear and stretching on.

Anticipating time, becomes the end of time,
Fluttering, like a hummingbird or a heart.

And, for what, time? For everything, time.
To stay in one thunderous moment, or all of them.

Be like the Knight of Pentacles. Don't rush into or out of,
Days and days, in which she never hears a voice again.

2:30?p I check the board: A green rectangle. I'm looking at Twitter. I'm wondering if I should be doing something more productive. Than writing poetry?! Productivity shame. 

I hear voices that sound like my mother's somewhere in this room, but she is not here.

WHY I DON'T GET A TATTOO OF MARY SHELLEY CAT

The beloved carry the most beautiful and dear lost beasts upon their arms,
Fur carved into their color-pierced flesh to be remembered again and again.
The animals have been given good homes and living tombstones.
Their guardians carry the entire weight of their lives upon their shoulders.

Mary Shelley cat has the most piercing green eyes.
Her long fur billows around her in amber waves, most beautiful,
Her whiskered patchwork face stares up, her nose half orange/half black,
Everything about her sparkles with flesh-impressed beauty.

But I could never look at her every day upon my arm,
The way herself sparkles as if she were myself as a child,
Her unbearable softness bared upon my softening flesh,
Her face etched in a remembrance of her own death.

I am not one to say "Careful!" or be over wary of death,
Me, a lover of skulls, crossbones, and coffins,
I walk through graveyards and ossuaries, stare down at death,
Crying, "Death. Thunderous death!" all unabashed and bone.

I begin each week with Mementori Mori Monday,
For there is nothing wrong with amber deaths,
Each blade of fur more beautiful than the last.
And I have been home to love and loss times nine.

Yet, willing to bear any bones for a short time, which could be years,
Not afraid of running into graves, of anticipating time,
I cannot imagine carrying every examination of her being,
Outside myself upon my body for all to see and constant weeping.

Instead, all the fallen aircraft and soft bodies crash,
Into my heart, tattooed there and pain pushed deep like color,
Allowing a pristine appearance, a depressed steeliness,
So, who would have thought that I cannot bear the everlasting sadness in my bones?


2:40p He seems nice, but the cardiologists always estimate their time (not the entire time). Today is not the day to use the title: Why I Hate Cardiologists. I may end up here after all. But how to avoid it? Could we do more daring things? Medicines and surgeries. Sigh. 

2:42p I try to start the next poem, but I really want to go check the board again. I'm checking... 

2:44p Blue! She's in recovery so I guess the cardiologist will be out to talk to me at some point. 

HOW I AM TOO AMERICAN

And, on the second day, I turned down the carpool.
"I'll take my chances," I said, with the ice and the snow,
Although to go together was no trouble and even pleasant.
Because, why ask for help when you can struggle?

Oh, when can we get over this? Rugged individualism. Radical self-reliance.
Those damn leftists (of which I am one) want us to cooperate.
Instead of mowing all of the grass one lawnmower at a time,
Why not do away with the lawns all together and try rewilding?

Aren't we all tired of these everlasting battles with ourselves?
We Americans with our thunderous ways and holidays,
So bloated are we by all of the amber waves of grains,
That our anticipating hearts become blocked and silent.

What if I were sitting with a group of singers instead of being alone?
Imagine a meadow of bluebells, fireweeds, poppies, forget-me-nots,
All of these plural wildflowers and singing bees keeping company,
But all I want is to sleep in my own bed and to vote for who pleases me most.

2:51p If he (the cardiologist) comes out what should I ask him? When I am prepared for the worst nothing happens. The worst always comes as a complete surprise. 

2:55p I saw him (the cardiologist) walk by. Quickly. Maybe he is using the bathroom or charting or some such before he talks to me. I wonder how these surgeons attend to their own physical needs. I am sure it went just fine. I finished the first drafts of the four poems. So my mom had a heart procedure and I wrote four bad poems. 

3:08p I check the board again. Yep, light blue (a sissy color, that's an inside joke, and also poetry), she's really still in recovery. No cardiologist. I decide that each of the four poems should have each of the four words chosen by my mother. So revising. Something really irritating is on the television in the surgical intervention (you could just say: surgery) waiting room. No one is watching it. 

3:14p I notice the sunlight falling on Mount Baker from the window. It is magnificent, awe-inspiring. I am still waiting. Meaning, I am in a state of waiting. It is active while still. Not that anything is about to happen. 

3:17p There aren't a lot of people in here anymore. 

3:29p The light is fading: blue, grey, the palest yellow. Mount Baker is invisible. 

4?p A woman finally comes and takes me to my mom. The cardiologist has done his work and she is mine again.