Hilda Raz

I am sick with worry when you call.
You tell me a story about ears
How the doctor asked about your earaches
Peered in and pronounced “Pristine.
Clean as a whistle.” And you were cured.
Because I am a maker of poems
And you are a maker of music
You tell me the word pristine was perfect.
It was the cure.
Yesterday I went to the hospital
To hear my heart beat in her various chambers.
I knew the sounds:
The Fly Bird from the right ventricle
The Go Go from the left
The Here I am from under the rib.


Photo by camilo jimenez on Unsplash

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