The heart ruptures, its toxins leach
into the groundwater of blood and neurons.
The muteness of cells is suddenly disrupted;
now they won’t stop chattering, replicating,
and I in my sweaty bed, watching the spider cracks
hover against the ceiling, ignore those cells
as they spin and spin.
Doctors become translators,
tapping a Morse code on my skin, trying to decipher
the language bumping through vessels and bones.
Oh, heartbreak—such a fickle thing.
Heartbreak is a squatter crouched in my kitchen,
its eyes a glittery spark, finger over its mouth,
hushing me,
hushing,
hush.