I trace the contents of my heart;
transfer them on to see-through paper.
The place where words and page collide
is bloodied like an unwrapped bandage.
Can you decipher streaked red marks
and taste the iron on the page?
The rhythm of my heart becomes
the rhythm hiding in my words:
systolic beats captured in pencil,
their pulses found in measured accents.
What movement will you find when hearing
the heartbeat’s echoes as you read?