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Chelsea Krieg

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart)
— e.e. cummings


The technologist tells him to lie still,

place his hands by his sides, relax

as she slides his body into the wide mouth


of the machine. Electrodes cling

beneath the ledge of his collarbone 

to hairs that curl in fuzzy down 


across his chest, that shiver 

with each rising weary breath. At once, 

the motor thrums and the camera moves 


toward his skin, pauses to hover

above the place where my lips have parted 

to praise the smooth bank of his bones, 


where my ear has warmed over the sound 

humming beneath. When the monitor glows, 

his eyes are closed and the picture appears, 


a hazy graphite shadow. For minutes, 

I watch his heart: ventricles contracting, 

blood pumping – my other silent pulsing center.