A Poem by my friend, Ellen Elizabeth

Heart Murmur

The news about her heart drops,
a small beat missed next to her kidneys,
the bigger news, the immediate crisis,
as they begin to falter, her first step toward
crossing over, leaving behind bone-spring,
ear-twitch, tail-flick, fur and purr.
A goblet of time stands on the counter
half empty, half full, muscatel wine.
On the white mantel, pink tulips drink water
in a crystal vase, splay petals in daylight,
their black stars an echo of night.

Curled on her pillow, she snores
into her tail, paws with claws tucked in.
A smear of medicine has dried
on her white fur bib and the hour inches
up to the next dose. I tick with dread.
One for the bladder, one for the stools
and for the kidneys, a needle under skin
twice weekly. Nothing prescribed for her heart,
nor mine, time to measure hope in milligrams.

When a heart murmurs, what complaint
is muttered under breath? What rumor?
What voiceless vowel needs telling?
My son in Afghanistan does not respond
lately to on-line notes. Can he hear
fear, that abnormal sound in my heart,
the faint whoosh that prays, “Come back,
come back, alive,” does he own that sort
of stethoscope? Or does he think
I have one probing about, listening?
The tin cup of time sits half empty, half full
in a mess hall tent packed with reservists.

Last night, just home from the vet,
she tried to run up the street away from me.
I won’t let her out now; she might leave home,
might die without me. Today the quiet house
has calmed her. She purrs under my hand, rolls
over, opens her belly for stroke, palpitate,
massage. A water bowl of time, half empty,
half full, sits solid on the mat next to kibble
and tuna. My son travels in a convoy
to inspect food in another camp.

Pillowed here in my life, I read news
of roadside bombers in Kabul. My chest
is an elk-hide drum, the beater striking too hard.
A mug of ginger tea, half empty, half full,
cools on the desk where I keyboard
hello to my son, “How’s the weather?”
She stretches awake, pads downstairs
to nibble, to gaze through the glass door,
returns to stare at me until her eyes narrow
and mine glance at the clock’s late hour.
Hope is twelve disks fixed between
the heaviest furniture and a pale oak floor
already scraped, dented here and there.

Ellen Elizabeth
May 3, 2007
draft

Ellen Elizabeth says, “Love of nature, spirit and human story—these three are the plaited path calling forth and informing my life and poetry.” Ellen’s poems have appeared in various publications, readings and public art projects. In the fall of 2004, Writer’s Haven Press published her first book of poetry, On Sandstone Singing. Two poems will appear in Cuiver River Anthology 2007 published by the Missouri Writers’ Guild, Saturday Writers Chapter. Three poems will also appear in the 2007 anthology of twenty-two Northwest poets published by Seattle’s Rose Alley Press: Limbs of the Pine, Peaks of the Range. The Poulsbohemian is Ellen’s favorite coffee house on Kitsap Peninsula and she will be a featured poet in the monthly reading series on Saturday, September 8, 2007 at 7:00 pm.