My heart lies, soft-featured now,
My hand curls against your ribs
like a snare
(so your spirit doesn't
shuffle off when I'm not looking).
Your body is sound;
no outward sign
of past crescendos or 
this latest grief.
Not a sour note.
God, I'm so ready to be done with
medical crises.

Touching you now, I want urgently
for the illusion to ring true,
my cheek dry against your skin
(it's gone deeper than crying)
my ear below your shoulder

just listening.

I can hear no flaw.

The beat is as strong and deep
as a distant churchbell.
The flutter, the skip,
lie in my own heart
the arrhythmia of fear,
the anticipating thrum
of looming sorrow.

If only the beat could drown out 
the familiar score 
that accompanies these absurd, 
these dissonant dramas.

(C) 2014 by Rosetti C.
Translunary Things
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  1. Wow this is beautiful! The sentence formation is inspiring. Would you mind taking a look at some of my poems, so I can get an expert’s eye?



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