How the Heart Works: A Poem

I do not know how the heart works
although it talks to me all of my life.
It thuds in my ears like thunder storms, beating
these claps
one—two—three inches close.
It is forever restless as I sleep and as I read how heart is,
heart is like machine—absolute organ composed of intricate parts.
Heart is solely inter-working instrument—yet I feel deep down,
it is more than valves, ventricles, vessels, and veins;
Can heart be more than mechanism pushing blood through chambers?
I learn how the heart works, but I am not told
how the heart understands. Heart is pump and muscle,
but it is not brain.
Out of sheer adrenaline, I attempt to distinguish heart’s proper classification:
Heart is not distorted half circles meeting at two points
and it is not undying love and not heart-wrenching emotion but it is upside-down pear, aorta and atria and pulmonary artery.
Heart is not allegiance to red lines and white shapes.
Heart-less is no offense since all have pulse and live
and all hearts strike and strike
and strike and I discover how the heart works
but I feel that this force, these punches, secretly
know more than me; more than definition and device seek.
It is said: follow heart’s desire. I wish to chase this yearning each burning day—
return to the place in this heart which floods not only with blood,
but with solidity, warm feeling which text book does not describe.
When explanation enlightens that a lifetime
is more than two and a half billion bangs,
I see that Science blends so cleverly with Philosophy.
Hearts are not broken, boys and
girls, who cry blood tears.
Heart is not paper Valentine, not balloon
which pops and never pops again. Hearts are not floating
in air with holes, deflating, although sometimes
I feel heart sink—heavy like rock, but the books
do not say why heart is deep in sensation in my chest
when I tell it, stop. Heart has mind of its own like child,
to whom I explain: these heart facts are more like fine lines.
I sense this truth in the pit of pounding organ and I pray—
I pray that this heart-sense
is no nonsense; that it is more than picture and name. I swear—
I swear heart is like person.
Heart is wholeheartedly aware.
I feel heart sigh—smile like faces, whispering through my veins
the secrets of imagination and bitter actuality.
Heart proceeds—it proceeds to drum out rhythms
every single second of these noisy nights.
Under a dark sky, I listen, awake and
I hope to some time comprehend precisely, this appendage,
these awkward beats which remind me
constantly— I am real,
I am throbbing,
I am alive.