Aaron Berkowitz

MY BROKEN HEART

 

I hear its beat at eighteen—the cold
jelly helps the echo-
cardiogram wand wander
across my chest—the ba-bumpba-
bump
 sounds strong and loud and then
the whimper, the slight gasp of tooth-gap
wheeze where flap won’t seal
so blood splashback, down—things
will change, not in the way people say
"there goes the neighborhood"—
in the way people say "I
love you. I need you. Please don't,
don’t go.”



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