MONTY REID
Stop
There, in its bloody nest, the heart beats
until they stop it
and the machine takes over.
It must feel strange to lift it up and hold it
as it quiets, all the music leaking out of it,
at least the way I imagine it
and the heart, how does it feel?
As they undo it and calm it, there in the chilly room
still and neutral, the ‘it’ of it, in your gloved-up hands
and then putting it back as if it was something
you didn’t really need after all.
You wanted it to be infinite, full of possibility
but there it was, in your hands
and it looked pretty much like all of the others.