Peter Newton

Pacemaker

Best as I understand it the little contraption gets sewn in place its stringy wires slimy like tendrils of electrodes reaching down as happens in the sea some part of my mother’s heart both mechanical and also fluid as a jellyfish entwining the muscular organ in some sort of argument over who will have the last word the steady little box stored like a pack of Pall Malls tucked under the skin of a t-shirt or the impulsive up and down of her heart as it heaves in the Florida heat navigating the uneven terrain of carpeting as if even the time it takes her to reach the breakfast table this morning is a record she could break.

partial sun
her African violets
soak up what’s given