This is my heart. It is a good heart.
In between the beats
and its half beats I hear the music of my ancestors.
My ears are closely tucked
In between the breasts
Of my mother, sleeping beside me, heaving little sighs.
My eyes are wide and eager,
and careful not to miss
a single beat,
a single story
of my forefathers that resonate with her
pulsing heart –
This is my heart. It is a good heart
that has learnt
to count its own rhythm,
to count the seconds that lead up slowly and steadily like a crescendo running to its own climactic end.
And caresses against skin that sparkles
with drops of sweat
ready to separate from the body
my heart beats with yours as I align my breath to rise and fall
the ebb and flow of
my heart, it is a good heart.
Even if the doctors read the reports with
screaming out from the prints of the pages,
I hear sounds of clouds clashing,
I hear raindrops beating
against the translucent window that paints itself
with colours every sunset,
in a small, sleepy, silent town
In between the rhythms,
in the silences between the arhythms
in my beating heart.
it is my heart.
And it is a good heart.
it relishes rules of mortality.